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UCS3  LIBRARY 


ADAM'S    CLAY 


DUKE'S   SON. 


"  Cosmo  Hamilton  knows  how  to  tell  a  plain,  un- 
varnished tale  with  dramatic  force  and  epigrammatic 
dialogue.  ...  It  is  a  remarkable  work,  and,  having  once 
taken  it  up,  its  reader's  attention  will  be  held  until  the  very 
end." — Punch. 

"Cosmo  Hamilton  has  long  been  known  as  a  delightful 
novelist.  '  Duke's  Son'  has  all  the  old  dash  and  sparkle." 
— Hearth  and  Home. 

"  Will  shock  the  moralist  and  yet  compel  him  to  read  on 
with  ever-increasing  intercs..  Unusually  interesting,  gay, 
cynical,  kindly,  arausing  and  distinctly  clever." — Academy. 


NATURE'S  VAGABOND  &  Othser  Stohies. 

"Strikingly  original.  ,  .  .  Comprises  a  genuine  revela- 
tion of  human  nature  which  haunts  the  imagination.  liiUy 
Rudd  is  po\ix-rfully  drawn  .  .  .  his  personality  never  falters, 
.  .  .  The  distinction  of  Mr.  Hamilton's  treatment  arisiis 
from  the  fact  that  he  has  diav.ii  his  readers  under  the  spell." 
—  Tribune. 

"  Few  living  novelisls  write  stories  quite  so  well  as  Mr. 
Cosmo  Ilamiltan  In  'Nature's  Vagabond'  his  graceful 
and  delicate  art  is  S;:en  at  its  best.  .  .  Unforced  Immoiir 
and  occasional  toueiies  of  restrained  and  tendercst  ]iati:c-s 
that  enliven  witli  an  ii resistible  ;ittractivem.ss" — tJkeLk. 

"Mr.  Cosmo  II;:ui:iton,  be::iiies  Ix-ing  a  liumoror.s  and 
kei  n!y  obs  :rvant  niaii,  can  touch  the  tragic  if  he  wills.'' — 
Duiiy  Chronicle. 

"The  root  of  Mr.  Ilaiailt/in's  si;ecc;;3  lies  iu  his  eharrn 
The  styK-  f;f  b.s  v, :  :m:,;  and  lli'-  ^  lyle  of  liis  iiiia^inaiion  a,"' 
full  of  delicacy  and  a'-'-ma." — {Juec/t. 


ADAM'S  CLAY 


a  IRovel 


ny 
COSMO    HAMILTON 

AUTHOR  OF    "duke's  SON,"    "NATURE'S   VAGABOND,"   ETC. 


NEW  YORK 

BRENTANO'S 

UNION     SQUARE 
1907 


Digitized  by  tine  Internet  Arciiive 

in  2007  witii  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


littp://www.arcli  ive.org/details/adamsclaynovelOOIiamiiala 


part  I 

THE    MAN 


"  Man  is  fire  and  woman  tow  ;  the  devil  comes  and 
sets  them  in  a  blaze." — Proverb. 


ADAM'S    CLAY 

CHAPTER  I 

Outside,  the  wind  shrieked  like  a  human  being  in 
a  state  of  hysterical  rage.  Trees  bowed  low  before 
its  unmeaning,  unnecessary,  irresistible  swirl.  Their 
leafless  branches  swished  the  air  like  whips,  and 
the  limbs  of  those  that  had  grown  old  creaked 
painfully.  The  younger  trees,  with  the  foolish 
pride  of  youth,  made  an  irritable  attempt  to  resist 
the  common  enemy,  and  for  their  temerity  and 
impertinence  were  bent  like  fishing-rods,  or  uprooted 
and  flung  far. 

Upon  the  slanting  slate  roof  of  the  old  farm-house 
the  cold  rain  beat  incessantly.  It  ran  along  the 
gutters,  down  the  pipes,  and  into  the  drain  with  a 
noise  like  the  gurgling  of  thirsty  horses  drinking. 

An  unfastened  door  of  an  outhouse  banged  dis- 
consolately at   almost    regular   intervals,  as  though 

performing  a    part  in    the    uproarious   cantata,  and 

7 


8  BDain's  Cla'^ 

when  the  angry  music  sank  for  a  moment  into 
piano,  a  chained-up  dog  raised  his  voice  in  a  dismal 
solo. 

Inside  the  farm-house  warm  fires  blazed,  oak 
shutters  were  fastened  over  the  windows  to  keep 
out  the  wind,  and  an  aroma  of  coffee  and  tobacco 
smoke  came  pleasantly  to  the  nostrils. 

For  all  that,  peace  and  contentment  did  not  face 
one  another  in  front  of  the  wide-mouthed  fire. 

On  one  side  of  the  open  grate  in  the  parlour  sat 
a  long-limbed,  square-shouldered  young  man,  with 
vague  discontent  and  envy  in  his  eyes,  turning  over 
the  leaves  of  an  album  of  photographs.  On  the 
other  side,  with  his  legs  stretched  out  in  front  of 
him,  chin  low,  the  corners  of  his  mouth  turned  down, 
and  with  a  look  of  sneering  pain  in  his  screwed-up 
eyes,  sat  his  father  watching  him  closely. 

A  large  oil  lamp,  carefully  shaded,  stood  on  an 
old  oak  table,  and  flung  a  strong,  white  light  in  a 
circle,  into  which  came  the  young  man  and  the  older 
one,  much  of  the  highly-polished  table  itself,  a  tin  of 
tobacco,  an  open  copy  of  Thackeray's  "  Vanity  Fair," 
and  several  much-smoked  pipes  lying  upon  a  pewter 
ash-tray. 

The  faces  of  both  men  were  thin  and  weather- 
worn.    Both   were   strong,   well-cut,  well-hred   faces. 


H^am's  Cla^  9 

moulded  on  the  same  lines,  and  bearing  a  close 
resemblance.  The  expression  upon  that  of  the  son 
was  habitually  calm,  dignified,  and  a  little  melan- 
choly. The  father's  expression  was  invariably  bitter 
and  sarcastic,  and  a  little  cruel. 

Outside  the  circle  of  light  the  room  v/as  in  shadow- 
But  when  a  tongue  of  flame  licked  an  unburnt  log, 
its  low,  oak-beamed  ceiling  and  wainscotted  walls, 
closely  covered  with  oak-framed  prints  above  long 
book-shelves — against  which,  by  the  side  of  a  great 
bow-window,  stood  a  rack  of  guns  and  fishing-rods — 
came  fitfully  into  the  picture. 

A  Welsh,  bob-tailed  sheep-dog,  with  hair  matted 
up  to  its  thighs,  lay  full  stretch  under  the  dresser  in 
a  dreamless  sleep,  exquisitely  relaxed  and  comfort- 
able. Against  its  back  a  well-grown  black  cat 
nestled  with  its  nose  between  its  paws.  A  copper 
kettle  standing  on  the  hob  did  its  best  to  temper 
the  wind's  fierce  melancholy  by  humming  a  cheerful 
song. 

Hard  knuckles  rapped  on  the  door. 

"  Come,"  said  John  Ashley,  without  taking  his 
eyes  from  his  son's  face. 

As  an  old  man  entered  and  came  slowly  across 
the  room,  the  dog  half  opened  one  eye,  closed  it 
immediately,  and  fell  again  into  a  well-earned  sleep. 


lo  SDain's  Clai5 

John  Ashley,  the  younger,  bent  his  head  lower  over 
the  album. 

The  photoj^raph  that  engrossed  his  attention  was 
of  a  beautiful  woman  dressed  for  a  ball. 

"  What  is  it,  Sloke  ?  " 

Old  Jesse  Sloke  put  a  gnarled  hand  upon  the  table. 

"  Beg  yur  pardon,  master,  but  Oi  jest  coom  to 
tell  'ee  as  'ow  Oi've  locked  oop  fur  night." 

"Very  well.     Good-night,  Sloke." 

John  Ashley's  nostril  curled  as  he  watched  the 
expression  of  surprised  admiration,  curiosity  and 
wonder  that  spread  over  the  face  of  his  son. 

"  Beg  yur  pardon,  master,  but  t'  wold  mare  her  bin 
a-coughin'  a  bit  s'  evenin'." 

"  Oh,  all  right.  I'll  have  a  look  at  her  in  the 
morning.     Good-night,  Sloke." 

The  boy  suddenly  held  the  album  nearer  the  light. 
His  interest  was  almost  breathless.  There  was  a  ring 
of  anger  in  his  father's  voice. 

The  old  man  removed  his  hand  from  the  table 
quickly,  and  shuffled  a  few  paces  towards  the  door. 
The  cat  rose,  arched  its  back,  stretched  until  it  stood 
on  tiptoe,  yawned,  turned  round  and  round  and  lay 
down  again. 

"It  be  t'  worstest  night  as  we've  'ad  this  winter, 
master." 


H^am's  Clas  n 

"  Yes.     Good -night,  Sloke." 

"Good-niq,ht,  master.     Good-night,  Master  John." 

No  answer  came  from  the  boy. 

The  old  man  made  his  way  across  the  room  with 
creaking  boots,  and  shut  the  door  quietly. 

Ashley  suddenly  put  up  his  foot  and  kicked  the 
album.  It  fell  upon  the  floor  with  a  thud.  The  dog 
sprang  to  its  feet. 

"  What  were  you  looking  at,  Jack  ?  " 

The  boy  caught  his  breath. 

"  The  .  .  .  the  most  wonderful  thing  I — I've  ever 
seen,  father,"  he  replied. 

The  wind  shrieked  derisively  down  the  chimney  as 
it  swept  over  the  house. 

The  father  shot  out  a  kind  of  laugh. 

"That's  what /thought  before  I  married  her,"  he 
said,  "  damn  her  soul !  " 


CHAPTER  II 

Both  men  rose  to  their  feet.  Ashley,  the  father,  in 
a  sudden  state  of  blasphemous  rage  that  he  found 
himself  unable  to  control ;  young  Ashley  from 
a  feeling  of  indignant  horror. 

"  You're  speaking  of  my  mother  !  "  he  cried. 

Ashley  turned,  and  looked  at  his  son  for  a  moment, 
noted,  not  without  admiration,  the  fine  indignation 
in  every  line  of  his  figure,  and  burst  into  a  loud, 
mirthless  guffaw. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  one  man  is  exactly  like  another. 
He  can  always  afford  to  be  chivalrous  and  Eliza- 
bethan about  women  who  have  done  some  other  man 
a  wrong.  For  one  who  has  never  seen  the  inside  of 
a  theatre — or  the  outside,  for  the  matter  of  that — 
your  attitude  is  splendid.  You  look  just  like  the 
hero-prig  of  a  drawing-room  drama.  Oh,  keep  it 
up.  Don't  become  self-conscious.  It  was  devilish 
good,  and  I've  heard  that  very  line  spoken  a 
thousand  times  by  a  dozen  fat  actors,  made  up  to 
look    youthful.     '  You're   speaking    of    my    mother.' 


Beam's  Cla^  13 

Now  shake  your  forefinger  at  me,  and  say,  '  Take 
care,  sir.'  No,  don't  just  say  it — hiss  it.  .  .  .  Ha ! 
Ha !  .  .  .  Oh,  what  gorgeous  humbug  !  What  the 
devil's  it  got  to  do  with  you  in  any  case  ?  She  was 
my  wife  before  she  was  your  mother,  and  for  that 
reason  I  beseech  the  particular  power  who  performs 
those  functions  to  damn  her  soul." 

There  was  something  very  horrible  in  the  man's 
rage  and  fury.  He  flung  his  arms  up  and  shook 
them  above  his  head.  And  the  veins  stood  out  upon 
his  forehead  and  swelled  in  his  neck  until  they  looked 
like  whip-cord.  Half-formed  sentences  tumbled  out 
of  his  mouth — sentences  made  up  of  filthy  abuse, 
agonised  reproaches,  and  ingenious  blasphemy.  He 
forgot  the  presence  of  his  son,  and  stormed  about 
the  room,  now  in  the  shadow,  now  in  the  circle  of 
light,  like  a  man  who  had  just  been  told  of  some 
detestable  act  of  treachery,  a  man  of  violent 
passions,  and  an  exaggerated  sense  of  his  own 
importance.  Only  a  man  incapable  of  forgiving, 
who  had  nursed  some  wrong  silently  for  years,  who 
had  chewed  the  cud  of  bitterness,  and  allowed  a 
self-made  martyr's  crown  of  thorns  to  tear  his 
flesh  constantly,  in  whose  heart  hatred  had  been 
slowly  fermenting  until  it  had  become  a  kind  of 
poison,    and    whose    jealous    silence   was    suddenly 


14  H^aln'5  Cla^ 

broken,  could  have  let  himself  go  and  get  out  of 
control  in  such  a  way. 

"  Mother — a  word  that  canting  people  call  beauti- 
ful. Mother — meaning,  in  this  smug  country,  a 
woman  who  has  gone  through  the  sacred  rites  of 
religion,  and  brought  into  the  world  a  child  by  the 
man  who  loves  her.  '  You're  speaking  of  my  mother.' 
I'm  not.  I'm  speaking  of  my  wife,  the  woman  I 
would  have  gone  to  hell  for — have  gone  to  hell  for — 
the  woman  who  tricked  me,  and  lied  to  me,  who  had 
all  that  was  best  of  me  and  flung  me  over.  That's 
the  woman  I'm  speaking  about,  damn  her  soul !  " 

Ashley  came  and  stood  in  front  of  his  son. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  I'm  speaking  of  your  mother. 
You've  never  heard  me  say  these  things  before. 
You've  never  quite  been  sure  that  you  ever  had  a 
mother.  For  twenty-five  years  the  word  'mother' 
has  never  been  spoken  in  this  house,  in  your  hearing. 
But  the  things  you've  heard  me  say  to-night  I  have 
cried  aloud  every  night  of  the  twenty-five  cursed 
years  that  I  have  spent  in  this  self-made  Siberia. 
Solely  because  you  might  never  be  tricked  and  lied 
to  and  flung  over  as  I  have  been,  I  have  kept  you 
away  from  refined  women  and  honourable  men,  and 
have  brought  you  up  in  the  company  of  trees,  the 
only  Christians   God   has   ever    made,  except   dogs. 


aC)anV5  Cla^  15 

It's  your  own  fault  that  you  have  heard  me  recite 
aloud  the  words  I  have  repeated  to  myself  until  I 
know  them  by  heart.  When  I  saw  you  looking  at 
the  woman  who  was  my  wife,  as  I  looked  at  her 
when  I  saw  her  first,  you  unlocked  the  blue  room  of 
my  life  and  came  inside.  .  .  .  Where  did  you  find 
that  album?" 

Young  Ashley  pointed  to  a  mildewed  leather  box. 
"  I  found  it  in  that.     It  was  in  one  of  the  barns." 

"Give  it  to  me.  Now  that  you  have  found  my 
photographic  series  of  ghosts,  I  may  as  well 
personally  conduct  you  round  the  gallery." 

Ashley  put  the  album  on  the  table  under  the 
lamp.  For  a  moment  he  kept  his  hand  upon  it  as 
though  afraid  to  open  it.  His  mouth  twitched,  and 
he  gave  a  shudder. 

Young  Ashley  was  quick  to  see  the  pain  his  father 
was  undergoing.  The  great  love  that  he  felt  for 
this  hitherto  silent  man  who  had  been  his  mother, 
brother,  sister,  and  friend  so  long  as  he  could  re- 
member, swept  away  his  feeling  of  intense  curiosity. 

"  Don't  open  it,  father ! "  he  said  awkwardly. 
"  Let's  put  the  album  back  into  the  barn." 

Ashley  understood  all  that  the  boy  meant  to 
convey,  and  was  grateful.  He  stretched  out  his 
hand  and  grasped  his  son's  arm. 


i6  a&ain's  Cla^ 

"  Jack,"  he  said,  "  have  you  ever  wondered 
why  I  have  never  spoken  to  you  about  your 
mother?" 

"Yes,"  replied  young  Ashley. 

"  Often  ? " 

"  Not  often." 

"  When  ?  " 

"  At  night,  after  reading  some  book  in  which 
there  has  been  a  mother." 

A  look  of  bitter  disappointment  came  into 
Ashley's  eyes. 

"  I've  been  persuading  myself,"  he  said,  "  that  you 
found  me  sufficient." 

"  I  have,"  replied  the  boy  quickly. 

"  No,  you  haven't,"  said  Ashley  jealously. 
"  You've  never  seen  or  heard  of  your  mother,  and 
yet,  when  I  cursed  her  just  now,  as  she  deserves 
to  be  cursed,  you  forgot  all  the  years  I've  devoted 
to  you  and  stood  up  for  her." 

The  boy  was  silent. 

"  I  want  to  know  something  else,"  said  his  father. 
"  Have  you  ever  wondered  why  a  man  of  my  type 
should  have  buried  himself  in  this  farm  for  twenty- 
five  j'cars  ? " 

"  No,"  said  young  Ashley. 

"  I  haven't   ever    struck   you   is  being  a   kind  of 


Hbam's  Clas  17 

whipped  dog,  who  has  been  flung^  whimpering  out 
of  the  world  and  spent  the  rest  of  his  life  hiding  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  young  Ashley. 

"  Have  you  ever  felt  suddenly  sick  of  this  place, 
and  been  filled  with  a  longing  to  get  away  and  see 
what's  the  other  side  of  it  ?  If  you  can  say  no  to 
that,  I  will  put  this  album  back  into  the  barn.  If 
you  can't  say  no,  I  will  open  it  and  show  you  why 
I  am  here,  why  you  and  I  have  remained  here  all 
these  years,  and  why  the  mention  of  your  mother's 
name  makes  me  blaspheme  like  a  drunken  cabman." 

"  I  can't  say  no,"  said  young  Ashley. 

"  You  can't  ?  "  cried  the  elder  man,  in  a  shrill  voice. 
"  You  can't  ?  My  God !  Then  I've  failed.  Every 
moment  that  I've  been  awake  since  I  brought  you 
here,  a  baby  of  eight  months  old,  I've  tried  to  make 
you  feel  that  I  was  your  mother  as  well  as  your 
father.  My  God  !  is  that  woman  coming  between 
me  and  all  she  left  me  ? " 

Again  his  temper  made  him  hysterical,  and  he 
struck  the  book  furiously  and  flung  his  son  away. 
Then  he  caught  him  by  the  arm  and  drew  him  back. 

"  Jack,"  he  pleaded,  "  don't  you  love  me  ?  Am  I 
nothing  to  you  after  all  these  years  ?  I've  been  a 
better  mother  than  many  a  woman  would  have  been, 
and  I've  tried  very  hard  to  make  up  to  you  for  the 

B 


1 8  Ht)am'5  Cla^ 

loss  of  a  mother.  Have  I  failed  so  utterly  that  you 
are  hankering  to  leave  me  ?     Jack,  Jack  !  " 

Like  a  woman,  this  curious  man  —  high-strung, 
jealous,  brought  by  the  constant  nursing  of  a 
grievance  very  near  to  madness — clung  to  the  boy's 
arms  and  peered  anxiously  into  his  face.  His  hands 
shook,  and  his  mouth  trembled,  and  all  self-control 
was  forgotten. 

Young  Ashley  had  never  seen  his  father  in  such 
a  mood  before.  He  had  looked  upon  him,  hitherto, 
as  a  strong,  energetic  man,  with  the  pluck  of  a  lion  ; 
superbly  fearless,  somewhat  hot-tempered,  utterly  im- 
patient and  scornful  of  sentimentality  or  morbidity. 

He  wrestled  with  an  insular  horror  of  showing  his 
feelings,  and  said  : 

"  Father,  I  always  have  loved  you,  and  I  always 
shall  love  you." 

With  a  hoarse  exclamation  of  joy,  Ashley  bent 
down  and  kissed  his  full-grown  son  on  the  clieek  as 
though  he  were  still  a  child.  Then  he  became 
self-conscious  and  coloured  up,  and  walked  away 
touching  things  uneasily,  while  he  cleared  his  throat 
and  pulled  himself  together. 

Young  Ashley  remained  standing  by  the  table. 
It  seemed  to  him  almost  uncanny  that  the  it  re 
sight  of  an  album  of  photographs  should  have  made 


a&am's  Clay  19 

his  father  show  a  side  of  his  nature  so  totally  in 
variance  to  the  one  he  habitually  showed,  and  that 
in  ten  minutes  the  monotonous  peace  of  the  lives 
of  two  men  could  be  so  rudely  shaken. 

Chasing  these  thoughts  through  young  Ashley's 
slow-thinking  head,  came  one  which  rounded  him 
up  with  a  jerk.  Until  ten  minutes  ago  he  had 
never  for  the  shade  of  an  instant  questioned  the 
fact  that  his  father  was  infinitely  the  stronger 
man  of  the  two.  But  the  outbursts  he  had  witnessed 
of  impotent,  uncontrollable  rage,  of  jealousy,  and 
finally  of  womanish  appeal,  made  young  Ashley 
suddenly  aware  of  the  fact  that  in  reality  he  was 
the  stronger  man.  Being  almost  ludicrously 
unworldly  and  unsophisticated,  he  could  not  under- 
stand what  his  mother  had  done  to  make  a  mark  so 
indelible  upon  the  life  of  his  father.  What  he  did 
vaguely  realise  was  that  the  relative  positions  of  his 
father  and  himself  had  undergone  a  complete  and 
unalterable  change.  He  no  longer  stood  in  need  of 
being  looked  after  by  his  father.  It  was  his  duty 
to  nurse  and  take  care  of  the  man  who  had  been  his 
parents,  brother,  sister,  and  friend  for  so  many  years. 

It  had  become  suddenly  and  horribly  evident  to 
him  that  his  father  was  as  near  madness  as  the  wind 
that  howled  round  the  roof  of  the  farm-house. 


CHAPTER  III 

John  Ashley  did  not  return  to  his  chair  at  the 
table  for  some  minutes.  He  paced  the  room  in  the 
shadow,  breathing  hard,  watching  his  son's  face  with 
wistful  eagerness. 

"  He  loves  me,  thank  God  for  that,"  he  said  to 
himself  "  But  if  he  becomes  restless  and  dissatisfied, 
and  wants  to  go  out  into  the  world,  what  will  become 
of  me  ?  ///  never  go  back — never,  never.  I  had 
enough  of  men  and  women.  I  won't  have  him 
made  to  suffer  as  I  have  suffered.  He  must  be 
kept  here,  among  the  trees.  God  !  if  he  should 
have  inherited  her  restlessness,  her  desire  for  know- 
ledge, her  insatiable  curiosity.  .  .  .  I'll  not  believe 
that  I  am  to  be  fastened  on  a  second  time  and  bent 
double.  I'll  not  believe  it.  Isn't  it  enough  to  have 
been  driven  into  hell  every  night  of  my  life  for 
twenty-iive  years  by  a  woman  ?  I"^  not  believe 
that  the  child  she  bore  me  is  to  be  made  to  cut  at 
my  heart  as  she  did.  .  .  .  He  must  be  kept  here. 
He  is  mine.     I  need  him.     And  if  I  can  help  it  no 


Beam's  Clas  ai 

woman  shall  do  for  him  what  was  done  for  me. 
Yes,  he  must  be  kept  here.  I'll  show  him  whether 
it's  better  to  live  among  trees  or  among  men  and 
women  of  the  world." 

He  sat  down.  The  sheep-dog  looked  up  at  him 
through  a  fringe  of  grey  hair,  gave  a  great  sigh,  and 
stretched  himself  out  again.  The  wind  flung  itself 
against  the  window  with  a  shriek. 

"  Jack." 

"  Yes,  father." 

"  Come  here  and  look  over  my  shoulder,  I'm 
going  to  show  you  why  I  brought  you  here  and 
came  here  myself" 

Young  Ashley  sat  down  by  his  father's  side. 
After  some  hesitation  he  put  his  strong  hand  upon 
his  father's  shoulder.  A  smile  trembled  upon  John 
Ashley's  lips. 

He  opened  the  album  at  the  first  page.  Upon  it 
there  were  two  photographs. 

"  Here,"  said  John  Ashley,  "  we  have  me  at  the 
age  of  thirteen.     Nice-looking  boy,  eh  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  young  Ashley. 

"  Chubby  and  optimistic  and  happy,  you'd  think, 
wouldn't  you  ? " 

"  Yes,"  said  young  Ashley, 

"  So   I  was.     The  world  went  very  well  then.     I 


22  B^aln'9  Cla^ 

had  shown  promise  on  the  cricket  field,  and  no  tuck 
shop  in  Eton  could  turn  out  messes  too  sweet  for 
my  tooth.  Now  look  at  the  photograph  by  its  side. 
Handsome  lad  that,  eh  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  young  Ashley. 

"  The  face  of  a  fine,  frank,  honourable  boy,  you'd 
think,  wouldn't  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  young  Ashley. 

"  My  best  friend  ;  the  boy  who  was  at  the  same 
dame's  school  with  me,  who  went  on  to  Eton  with 
me,  who  shared  all  my  secrets,  all  my  petty  triumphs 
and  disappointments,  whom  I  loved  and  looked  up 
to.  Damn  Jus  soul  too  !  "  He  turned  over  the  page 
and  thumped  it  with  his  fist.  "  Here  we  have  the 
same  two  faces  five  years  later.  They  are  still 
chubby  and  optimistic  and  happy,  aren't  they?" 

"  Yes,"  said  young  Ashley. 

"A  trifle  smarter  as  to  hair,  a  trifle  more  careful 
as  to  the  set  of  collar  and  tie,  you  will  notice.  My 
best  friend  and  I,  at  that  age,  had  shared  many  more 
petty  triumphs  and  disappointm.ents.  At  that  age — 
eighteen — we  were  both  in  the  eleven,  we  had  both 
played  against  Harrow  at  Lords  —  epoch-making 
times  !  —  had  spent  the  holidays  together  at  our 
respective  homes,  had  shot  over  the  same  covers, 
hunted    with   the    same    pack,    been    to    the    same 


BDam's  Cla^  23 

theatres,  the  same  dances,  the  same  race-meetings, 
and  the  same  funerals.  At  that  age,  I  still  believed 
my  best  friend  to  be  the  most  honourable,  the  most 
fearless,  the  most  frank  boy — man-^I  beg  his 
pardon  ! — the  world  had  ever  contained." 

That  page  also  was  turned  over.  Again  the  fist 
went  down  upon  it  with  a  bang.  Other  pages 
followed,  in  which  there  were  unessential  school 
groups,  pictures  of  Henley,  views  of  Eton  and 
Windsor  Castle,  of  a  prim  white  house  standing  in 
a  broad  park,  of  stables  and  ponies,  dogs,  and 
elderly  women  in  queer  clothes  and  cork-screw 
ringlets  ;  old  men  in  stocks  with  much  hair  upon 
their  faces,  wearing  flat  -  brimmed  top  -  hats,  or 
bowlers  with  infinitesimal  brims  ;  views  of  places 
of  public  interest — the  Thames,  the  Tower  of 
London,  Trafalgar  Square,  the  Houses  of  Parlia- 
ment, Westminster  Abbey  ;  prize-fighters,  actresses, 
cricket  elevens. 

Then  Ashley  kept  his  hand  upon  an  open  page. 

"  Real  men,  now,"  he  said.  "  Undergraduates  of 
Cambridf^e  University.  Very  fine  collars  and  ties 
now,  eh  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  young  Ashley. 

"And  waistcoats — mark  the  waistcoats,  and  don't 
fail  to  notice  a  suspicion  of  whisker  !     Ah,  ha  !     Men 


24  HDam's  Cla^ 

indeed  !  .  .  No  two  men  could  have  been  more 
together,  more  in  sympathy  than  we  two.  Look ; 
here  we  are  in  hunting  kit,  and  here  in  evening 
clothes  as  members  of  a  swagger  club  ;  here  in 
running  shorts,  here  in  gym.  kit,  here  in  the  clothes 
we  wore  in  a  dramatic  entertainment — my  best 
friend  as  the  hero.  He  always  played  the  hero.  .  .  . 
Then  we  comxe  to  him  in  his  first  wig  and  gown  as 
a  member  of  the  Inner  Temple.  I  was  no  book 
man,  and  the  Temple  was  closed  to  me,  but  here 
I  am,  opposite  as  usual,  as  a  man  about  town.  As 
it  was  impossible  for  me  to  share  rooms  with  him 
in  his  inn,  he  shared  my  rooms  in  IMaddox  Street. 
And  here " — John  Ashley's  voice  took  a  deeper 
note — "  we  come  to  the  photograph  of  a  girl." 

Young  Ashley  bent  over  the  page.  "  How 
lovely  !  "  he  said, 

"  How  lovely !  "  echoed  his  father.  "  Do  you 
wonder  that  my  best  friend  and  I  began  to  see  v. 
little  less  of  one  anotb.er  about  this  time  ? " 

"  No,"  said  young  Ai;lilcy. 

"  L  ok  ;  here  she  is  again  on  her  horse,  and  here 
in  the  dress  in  which  she  was  presented,  and  here 
in  the  dress  she  wore  tlic  n!;.;';t  I  proposLxl  to  and 
war,  accci^t' d  by  her.  'G  •)]  luck,  ol;]  mr:),'  my 
b.st  friend  s  dd  tliat  night.     '  S/ie  is  the  lucky  one.' 


Edam's  Cla^  25 

,  .  .  Let's  get  on.  There  are  not  many  more  now. 
This  was  taken  on  our  honeymoon  in  Paris,  and 
this  at  a  little  chalet  on  the  Alps  ;  this  in  Vienna, 
and  this  in  Bond  Street.  We  had  settled  in  London, 
a  little  house  in  Park  Street,  to  which  my  best  friend 
had  a  latch-key.  .  .  .  Look  at  this.  The  proud 
father,  the  beaming  mother,  the  bald-headed  son 
and  heir." 

"  Me  !  "  cried  young  Ashley. 

"  Yes,  you.  And  that  is  the  last  photograph  but 
one.  Can  you  guess  what  the  last  one  is  ?  No, 
you  can't=  You  have  seen  the  faces  of  my  best 
friend,  and  of  the  beautiful  woman  who  was  my 
wife.  You  would  refuse  to  believe  that  in  the  next 
photograph  my  best  friend  stands  by  her  side, 
wouldn't  you  ?  You  would  absolutely  refuse  to 
believe  it,  eh  r  " 

"  Yes,"  said  young  Ashley. 

John  Ashley  turned  to  the  last  photograph,  and  his 
face  became  suddenly  inl'iamed,  and  his  voice  thick. 

"  By  God,  then,  you  would  be  wrong  I  Not  a 
year  after  that  woman  with  the  face  of  an  angel 
stood  at  the  altar  swearing  to  love,  ho!:oi;r,  and 
obey  one  man,  she  h;is  her  photograph  taken  with 
his  best  friend,  trj.e  most  lionoura<jle  man  thic  w.-rkl  had 
ever  contained,  on  a  second  honeymoon  in  Paris  !  " 


2  6  Beam's  Glai? 

"  No,"  cried  young  Ashley,  "no  !  " 

"  Yes,  yes,  yes  !  Ah,  ha !  that's  a  facer  for  you, 
eh  ?  That  throws  you  back  on  your  haunches,  eh  ? 
My  friend  and  my  wife,  the  man  of  honour — the 
woman  of  intesi^rity,  gentleman  and  gentlewoman. 
Read  this  note,  pasted  below  the  photograph.  I 
found  it  on  my  writing-table  when  I  returned  after 
three  hours'  absence  spent  at  polo.  How  well  she 
formed  her  letters.  '  It  was  all  a  mistake.  Frank 
and  I  fought  against  the  inevitable  as  long  as  we 
could.  It  has  been  too  much  for  us.  We  have 
gone  away.  I  have  no  grudge  against  you.  You 
were  very  good,  but  love  conquers  all.  Be  good 
to  baby.'  .  .  .  Now  do  you  understand  why  I  came 
here  ?  Now  can  you  understand  why  I  say  that 
God's  only  Christians  are  the  trees?  Now  can  you 
sympathise  with  me  when  I  .shout  out  at  the  top  of 
my  voice  a;id  ask  someone  or  other  to  damn  their 
souls?"  lie  sprang  to  Iris  feet  and  clutched  young 
Ashley  by  the  shoulders.  "Jack,  Jack,  don't  you 
leave  me ;  Jack,  don't  you.  Ic.ive  me  toe  ! " 

The  wind  rattled  the  v  indow  and  vrh.istlcd  dovcn 
the  cliinrricy.  Young  A..li!ey  put  his  arm  round  his 
father's  shrJ:ing  shoukler. 

'•  Father,  I'll  never  leave  you,"  he  said. 


CHAPTER  IV 

When  young  Ashley  and  his  father  stood  in  front 

of  the  farm  in  the  morning,  no  other  marks  of  the 

storm   were  visible  except  a  few  broken    branches, 

several    uprooted    saplings,    a     tile    or    two    lying 

smashed    in    the    yard,   several    more    lines    round 

the  eyes  of  the   elder    Ashley,    and    a   keen,    more 

sympathetic    expression    upon    the   face   of  Ashley 

the  younger. 

Togetl^er,  in   silence,  they  made  their  way  to  a 

heap  of  dead  leaves  and  cabbage  stalks,  and  young 

Ashley   carried    the    album.     Without    a   word    he 

tore    out    page    after   page    of    it,    ma 'e   a    pile    of 

them,   set   them    alight,    and    watclicd    them    burn. 

When  nothing  remciined  except  charred  paper,  and 

the    smoke    had    been    gathered    up    by   the    sweet 

spring    air,   the    two    men — the    other    was    a    man 

now — soleip.nly  shook  hands,  and  went  about    their 

business,    one    on    horseback    to    the    sheep-pens    in 

the  val'cy,   the  other  to  the  stables  to  attend  to  the 

coughing  mare. 

27 


28  BDain's  Cla^ 

Nevertheless,  peace  did  not  sit  upon  the  hearth 
of  Ashley's  farm.  Only  a  figure  made  up  to  re- 
present peace  that  was  stuffed  with  sawdust  sat  there. 

One  week  followed  another  in  busy  and  useful 
monotony.  Fruit  trees  broke  into  bud,  a  thousand 
red  eyes  blinked  upon  the  branches  and  grew  larger 
and  larger  in  the  warmth  of  the  friendly  sun. 
Eager  green  heads  poked  out  of  the  good  red 
earth  in  long,  regular  lines,  and  listened  enraptured 
to  the  throbbing  notes  of  the  lark.  Birds  flirted 
in  the  stirring  hedges,  and  began  to  look  about 
for  suitable  sites  wherein  to  build  their  homes,  and 
the  whole  world  was  filled  with  the  gentle  movement 
of  young  life.  And  the  two  Ashleys  went  about 
their  business  industriously.  Each  kept  watch  upon 
the  other.  The  father  to  see  that  the  son  showed 
no  more  signs  of  discontent,  envy,  and  restlessness  ; 
the  son  that  the  father  developed  no  more  signs 
of  the  madness  he  had  seen  stamped  upon  his 
forehead. 

Ashley  the  elder  had  no  need  of  fear.  The  story 
that  young  Ashley  had  heard  had  bitten  into  his 
soul.  The  germ  of  desire  to  go  ouL  into  the  workl, 
and  do  as  oLhcr  men  did,  died.  Tiie  faitldessncss 
of  IjIs  mother  and  his  latiier's  best  friend  liad 
appalled  him.     But  young  Ashley  had    every  need 


HDanVs  Clap  29 

to  watch  his  father  with  anxiety.  The  relationship 
between  his  father  and  himself  had  ripcne.i  and  had 
become  more  openly  affectionate,  but  the  nights 
were  few  when  young  Ashley  did  not  listen  outside 
the  elder  man's  door  without  hearing  the  storm 
renewed  within. 

But  there  was  one  night  of  all  these  about  which 
young  Ashley  could  never  think  without  a  shudder. 
During  the  whole  of  the  day  that  preceded  it,  young 
Ashley  was  infinitely  delighted  and  encouraged  by  a 
great  change  for  the  better  in  his  father's  condition. 
The  elder  man  began  the  day  with  a  quiet  cheeriness 
that  his  son  never  remembered  to  have  seen  in  him 
before.  Shortly  after  daybreak  young  Ashley  woke 
with  a  start  to  find  his  fk'ther,  fully  dressed,  standing 
at  the  foot  of  his  bed,  smiling  at  him. 

"  Up  you  get,  Jack,  my  lad.  No  laziness.  There's 
lots  to  be  done,"  Ashley  sang  out. 

And  young  Ashley  was  on  his  feet  in  a  moment. 
"  All  right,  father,"  he  replied,  "  I'll  be  down  in  ten 
minutes." 

It  was  a  cold,  bleak  morning.  A  keen  north-east 
wind  made  the  still  leafless  branches  bend  and  twist 
uncomfortably.  But  the  unaccustomed  ring  in  his 
father's  voice  was  more  welcome  to  young  Ashley 
than  the  sparkle  of  the  sun. 


3°  B&ain'5  Cla^ 

Under  his  window,  as  he  tubbed  and  hurried  into 
his  clothes,  he  heard  his  father  talking  to  the  dogs, 
and  every  now  and  then  whistling  a  bar  or  two  of 
some  catchy  tune.  Young  Ashley  had  never  heard 
his  father  whistle  before. 

If  he  had  been  a  conventionally  reared  man  he 
would,  being  unobserved,  have  given  thanks  to  God 
in  some  stiff  formula  laid  down  for  the  purpose,  duly 
indexed,  for  performiiig  the  miracle.  As  it  was, 
being  a  man,  luckily,  without  any  acquaintance  with 
dogma,  any  knowledge  of  stereotyped  forms  and  set 
speeches,  he  glanced  at  the  sky  and  the  trees  and 
heaved  a  sigh  of  relief,  and  thanked  God  for  the 
change  in  his  father  in  a  law  colloquial  words  of  his 
own,  hot  from  his  heart. 

As  the  day  grew  older,  the  improvement  ripened, 
and  when  father  and  son  sat  down  together  to  their 
evening  meal,  it  would  not  have  been  easy  to  have 
found  two  more  unclouded  faces  in  the  country. 

Old  Sloke  and  his  wife  had  talked  over  the 
master's  new  manner  early  in  the  morning,  the  old 
woman  v;ith  a  (e\v  glad  tears.  Sloke  himself  had 
caught  the  infection,  and  had  shown  his  delight  by 
making  up  a  roaring  fire  and  lighting  not  only  an 
extra  lamp  but  several  candles. 

And  so  the  old   dining-room   of  the  melancholy 


B&am'5  Cla^  31 

farm  was  a  blaze  of  light  that  evennig.  Laughter,  so 
long  a  stranger  there,  rang  out  continually.  In  high 
spirits,  Ashley  chaffed  his  son  and  old  Sloke,  and 
teased  the  bob-tailed  sheep-dog.  The  latter,  quick 
to  realise  the  sudden  change,  made  no  attempt  to  He 
under  the  dresser  with  its  head  on  its  paws  watching 
the  proceedings  from  behind  a  fringe  of  long  grey 
hair,  but  took  up  a  position  by  the  side  of  the 
master's  chair,  and  even  went  so  far  as  to  jog  his 
arm  now  and  then  when  the  excellent  aroma  of  the 
food  got  the  better  of  him.  The  black  cat  too, 
usually  as  taciturn  as  its  betters,  was  not  behindhand 
in  noticing  the  improved  atmosphere.  With  a  giddi- 
ness as  unusual  as  it  was  undignified,  he  rolled  on  his 
back  in  front  of  the  fire,  boxed  the  ears  of  imaginary 
mice  on  the  red-tiled  hearth,  and  then  sprang  on  to 
an  unoccupied  corner  of  the  table  and  sat  blinking 
at  the  two  men,  with  all  his  purring  machinery  in 
full  working  order. 

Both  animals,  for  the  first  time  in  their  lives, 
received  titbits  from  the  hand  of  their  master, 
and  when  the  meal  was  over  fearlessly  took  up 
comfortable  positions  in  front  of  the  fire,  instead 
of  making  themselves  scarce  in  cold  and  shadowy 
corners  of  the  room  as  was  their  custom. 

When    old    Sloke    had    cleared    the    table,    and 


32  HDam'3  Cla^ 

after  much  lin<;^crin;^  had  gone  into  the  kitchen, 
young  Ashley  lit  his  father's  pipe  and  sat  down 
opposite  to  hirn  on  the  other  side  of  the  hearth. 

"  It  is  good  to  see  you  like  this,  father,"  he  said 
involuntarily, 

"Is  it,  Jack?  It's  not  better  for  you  than  for 
mc,  old  man.  I  don't  know  why,  but  I  feci 
happier  to-day  than  I  have  done  since  .  .  .  since  I 
brought  you  here.  I  dreamt  of  your  mother  last 
night,  and  I  woke  feeling  that  we  were,  both  of 
us,  pretty  nearly  at  the  end  of  our  troubles." 

"What  do  you  mea<n  ? "  ajked  young  Ashley 
quickly. 

"  I  don't  know,  my  dear  fellow.  I  can  only  give 
you  my  impression.  Something  is  going  to  happen 
greatly  to  the  benefit  of  us  both,  I  can  only  tell 
you  that  I  have  an  idea  that  she  and  I  are 
going  to  meet  soon  and  remain  together." 

"You're  not  going  to  leave  me  .^ "  cried  young 
Ashley. 

Old  Ashley  laughed  and  got  up,  and  slapped  his 
son  on  the  shoulder,  heartily,  without  a  word. 
The  silence  was  more  eloquent  than  any  remarks, 
however  affectionate. 

"  And  so  it's  good  to  see  me  in  high  spirits,  is 
it,  eh?     I  suppose  I  have  been  a  fine  specimen  of 


Beam's  Cla^  33 

a  bear  with  a  sore  ear."  He  gave  a  kind  of 
chuckle  as  though  he  were  looking  back  at  son:ie- 
thing  that  had  happened  a  long  time  ago,  at  which 
he  could  afford  to  be  amused.  "  But  those  moods 
are  over.  In  future  you'll  find  me  a  very  easy 
person  to  get  on  with." 

Young  Ashley  examined  his  father  with  eager 
care.  He  was  a  fine,  big  man.  His  hair  was  very 
white  and  his  thin  face  was  heavily  lined  ;  but  the 
haggard,  introspective  expression  had  gone  out  of 
it.  Young  Ashley  noticed  that  the  sarcastic  mouth 
had  become  extraordinarily  tender,  and  there  was 
a  peacefulness  on  the  forehead  and  in  the  eyes 
that  made  the  face  almost  unrecognisable. 

"  Has  anything  happened,  father  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  You  know  as  much  as  I  do,  my  dear  fellow, 
and  are  not  miore  surprised  at  me  than  I  am  at 
myself.  I  know  that  something  is  happening  and 
that's  all.  I  am  not  able  to  say  why  or  how  I 
know.  I  just  know  and  am  very  thankful,  because, 
of  course,  it  has  to  do  with  my  wife." 

He  sat  down,  puffed  out  a  cloud  of  tobacco 
smoke,  and  fondled  tlie  ears  of  the  sheep  -  dog, 
whose  head  had  been  pushed  against  his  knee. 

Both  men  sat  quiet  for  several  minutes.  The 
son   eyed    his    father  wonderingly,  hardly  knowing 


34  Beam's  Cla^ 

whether  to  be  satisfied  with  the  new  state  of 
things  or  nervous.  He  was  naturally  nriystified  and 
not  unnaturally  a  little  frightened.  The  father, 
lying  back  in  his  chair  with  his  long  legs  stuck 
out  in  front  of  him,  wore  a  peaceful  and  rather 
whimsical  smile.  The  old  grandfather  clock  ticked 
cheerfully  and  the  cat  purred  upon  the  hearth. 

"  If  I  had  my  time  over  again,"  said  Asliley 
presently,  "  I  should  do  exactly  as  I  did,  in 
exactly  the  same  blind  and  headlong  way,  and 
be  just  as  wretched.  All  the  same,  my  dear  Jack, 
looking  dispassionately  at  the  matter,  a  man  is 
only  genuinely  happy  if  he  permits  women  to 
play  a  very  small  and  very  fleeting  part  in  his 
life — I  mean  a  man  who  is  built  on  the  same 
egotistical,  narrow-minded  lines  as  I  am.  It  doesn't 
do  to  hand  one's  whole  heart  into  the  keeping  of  one 
woman.  It  is  heroic  and  knightly  and  romantic,  and 
all  that ;  but  it  is  damned  foolish.  The  thing  to  do 
is  to  give  an  infinitesimal  portion  of  one's  heart  to  a 
number  of  women — so  little,  in  the  bulk,  as  to  make 
precious  little  difference  ':o  that  queer  organ.  I 
advocate  selfishness,  egregious  selfishness,  as  the  one 
safe  receipt  for  a  permanently  contented  mind.  It 
sounds  horrid,  but  it  is  the  receipt,  whether  they  own 
to  it  or  not,  up  to  which  every  man  r,nd  woman  born 


Beam's  CIai5  35 

struggles  to  live.  Remain  unmarried,  and  all  is  well. 
Marry,  and  one  of  the  parties,  if  not  both,  must 
necessarily  be  miserable.  The  clash  of  ego  in  every 
married  man's  house  makes  more  din  than  the  con- 
tinual banging  of  a  dinner-gong.  In  a  bachelor's 
house  the  dinner-gong  breaks  the  silence  refreshingly. 
If  ever  you  feel  the  need  of  femininity  fight  it  for  all 
that  you  are  worth.  If  the  desire  beats  you,  make  a 
friend,  even  go  so  far  as  to  become  engaged  if  you 
are  inflicted  with  the  heroic  temperament,  but  go  no 
further.  Alone,  a  man  is  master  of  his  soul. 
Coupled  with  a  woman,  he  is  neither  master  of  his 
own  nor  hers.  Yours  is  the  ideal  existence,  Jack, 
old  man.  Ygu  know  no  woman,  and  have  no  desire 
to  do  so.  If  you  wish  to  mould  life  into  the 
particular  shape  that  pleases  you,  you  will  remain 
as  you  are.  If  not,  go  out  into  the  world  and  be 
strangled  by  a  woman's  eyelash." 

"  I  won't  risk  it,"  said  young  Ashley,  with  a  laugh. 

"  I'm  glad  to  hear  it,"  replied  the  father  heartily, 
"  For  you  are  made  on  my  lines  to  a  turn.  I  see  in 
you  the  same  genius  for  dramatising  small  incidents, 
the  uncomfortable  habit  of  elevating  a  shaving 
pimple  into  a  carbuncle.  You  arc  the  pivot  on  which 
the  earth  revolves.  Every  jtcne  thrown  at  you 
becomes  a  boulder,  every  pin-prick  in  your  vanity  :.', 


36  BDanVs  Cla^ 

sword-thrush,  You  wouldn't  fall  in  love,  you  would 
dive  into  it  head  first.  You  would  lay  not  merely 
your  whole  heart  at  the  feet  of  the  woman,  but  your 
whole  soul,  body,  and  brain.  There  are  three  ends 
to  a  love  of  this  kind  —  madness,  murder,  or 
martyrdom.  By  a  fluke  I  escaped  from  two  of 
them,  and  have  daily  lit  the  pile  at  the  foot  of  my 
cross  for  years.  This  is  what  you  would  do  too,  for 
you  also  would  live  to  rue  the  day  upon  which  you 
fell  in  love.  This  is  the  reason  of  my  having  kept 
you  away  from  civilisation.  When  you  are  alone 
here.  ..." 

"Why  should  I  be  alone  here?"  broke  in  young 
Ashley. 

A  blaze  of  affection  leaped  into  old  Ashley's  eyes. 
He  made  a  long  arm,  and  rested  his  hand  for  a 
moment  on  his  son's  knee. 

"  Ah,"  he  said,  "  I  like  to  hear  that  tone  in  your 
voice.     It  does  me  good.     Thanks,  Jack.  .  .  ." 

Young  Ashley  twisted  his  shoulders  im- 
patiently. 

"  I  can't  understand  you  to-night,  father,"  he  said, 
with  a  note  of  irritation  in  his  voice.  "  Since  we 
finished  dinner  you  have  done  nothing  but  talk  like 
a  man  who  has  been  told  that  he's  going  to — ■ 
to  .  .  ." 


BDam'0  Clag  37 

"  Die  ?  "  asked  Ashley. 

"  Yes,"  said  young  Ashley. 

The  father  smiled. 

"  Isn't  it  odd  ?  Of  course  I  haven't  been  told  so. 
but  I  do  feel  like  a  man  who  has  been  walking, 
walking,  walking,  and  finds  that  he  has  almost 
arrived  at  the  top  of  the  hill.  It's  most  queer.  It 
doesn't  make  me  feel  sad.  It  only  makes  me  feel 
,  .  .  quiet.  It  makes  me  want  to  turn  round  and 
look  back  at  the  miles  that  I've  so  painfully  covered 
and  criticise  the  way  I  covered  them,  as  though  I 
were  someone  else.     I  rather  like  it." 

"  I  don't,"  blurted  out  young  Ashley. 

Ashley  gave  a  little  laugh — a  laugh  of  pleasure, 
of  delight,  of  appreciation,  of  gratitude.  He  got  up 
and  sat  on  the  arm  of  his  son's  chair,  with  his  arm 
round  his  shoulder.  There  was  something  very 
boyish  in  the  action. 

"  I  should  hate  to  leave  you,  old  Jack,"  he  said. 
"  But  in  any  case,  whether  it's  to  be  soon  or  late,  it 
is  to  be,  and  when  you  are  alone  here  to  plod  through 
the  remaining  years  of  your  allotted  time,  remain 
alone.  Shun  women  as  you  would  shun  deadly 
nightshade.  For  all  their  beauty  and  fascination 
they  are  never  worth  the  candle.  All  the  same" 
— he  rose  and  threw  up  his  head  and  clenched  his 


33  H^am's  Cla^ 

fists — "  oh,  my  God  !  \vhat  wouldn't  I  give  for  one 
touch  of  ray  wife's  hand  !  " 

The  bob-tailed  sheep-dog  shot  out  an  impatient 
sigh,  shambled  to  the  door,  sniffed  and  snorted  under 
it,  pawed  it  twice  petulantly,  and  then  turned  and 
looked  reproachfully  at  its  master. 

Ashley  glanced  at  the  clock,  ancl  gave  a  loud  la'^gh 

"Jack,"  he  cried,  "look  at  the  time!  We  are  an 
liour  and  a  half  later  than  we've  ever  been  before. 
No  wonder  that  old  woman  of  a  dog  is  angry 
We've  spoilt  his  beauty-sleep.  Come  to  bed,  old 
man." 

And  so  the  lamps  were  put  out,  and  the  candles 
snuffed  and  doors  bolted,  and  the  two  men  made 
their  way  up  the  broad  cak  stairs  to  their  respective, 
rooms.  For  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  while  young 
Ashley  undressed,  Ashley  sat  on  his  bed  and  talked 
animatedly  about  the  work  on  the  farm,  of  what  had 
to  be  done  the  next  day,  and  of  the  prospects  of  the 
year.  There  was  nothing  in  his  manner  to  make 
young  Ashley  feel  either  mystified  or  uneasy,  and 
when,  finally,  he  swung  out  of  the  room,  with  a  cheery 
good-night,  he  left  bis  son  filled  .vith  hope,  happier 
than  he  had  been  since  the  discovery  of  the  album. 
Before  he  had  time  to  gloat  over  this,  sleep  touched 
his  brain  with  its  finger  and  switched  out  the  light. 


Edam's  Cla^  39 

If  young  Ashley  had  been  sleeping  less  heavily 
an  hour  before  daybreak,  he  would  have  heard  his 
father  creep  in  stockinged  feet  down  the  stairs,  unbar 
the  door  with  the  greatest  care,  and  make  his  way 
with  a  kind  of  run  into  the  sleeping  night,  smiling 
curiously. 

But  young  Ashley  slept  on  without  moving  until 
daybreak,  when  he  woke  mechanically.  In  excellent 
spirits,  he  tubbed  in  the  cold  rain-water  provided 
by  the  panting  but  cheerful  Sloke,  got  into  his 
breeches  and  gaiters  and  thick  Harris  tweeds,  and 
stumped  into  his  father's  room. 

"Here,  Sloke,"  he  shouted,  "how  long's  my  father 
been  up  ? " 

The  old  man  shuffled  along  the  passage  and  stood 
on  the  threshold  of  the  room. 

"  Earlyish  this  marnin',  Master  John,"  he  said. 
"  'E  be  oop  an'  aboot  afore  Oi  brought  the  water." 

"  By  Jove  !  "  said  young  Ashley. 

"  'E  be  feelin'  grand  an'  well  this  marnin'  too,  so 
Oi  think,  Master  John." 

Young  Ashley  nodded,  called  the  dog,  and  went 
out  into  the  chill  morning  about  his  business. 

Ashley  was  not  back  for  breakfast.  This  gave 
young  Ashley  and  the  Slokes  no  uneasiness.  He 
frequently  remained  out  in  distant  parts  of  the  farm 


40  H^am'5  Clas 

and  took  breakfast  with  the  men.  He  was  not 
back  for  lunch.  This,  also,  was  not  an  infrequent 
occurrence.  So  young  Ashley  and  the  Slokes  made 
a  hearty  meal  with  easy  minds.  But  when  young 
Ashley  returned  to  the  house  for  a  cup  of  tea  with- 
out finding  his  father  he  left  it  untouched,  saddled 
and  mounted  his  horse  and  started  off  at  a  gallop 
for  that  part  of  the  farm  to  which  old  Ashley 
devoted  himself  On  the  way  he  asked  a  man  here, 
and  a  man  there,  if  they  had  seen  his  father. 

"  Not  this  marnin',  Master  John,"  was  the 
invariable  answer. 

With  his  heart  in  his  throat,  young  Ashley  made 
the  round  of  the  farm  from  end  to  end.  Not  a  soul 
had  seen  his  father.  He  sat  upon  his  heaving  horse 
and  listened, 

"  Father,  father !  "  he  shouted,  in  a  voice  that  had 
no  sound. 

Twice  he  returned  to  the  farm  to  find  Sloke 
standing  by  the  gate.  Each  time  the  old  man 
shook  his  head  silently,  and  watched  young  Ashley 
turn  and  ride  off  at  top  speed. 

Filled,  by  this  time,  with  terror  that  made  him 
tremble  from  head  to  foot,  young  Ashley  rode  blindly 
here  and  there.  Scraps  of  his  father's  remarks,  made 
the  previous  evening,  floated  through  his  brain,  and 


when  at  last  he  found  himself  at  the  edge  of  a  deep 
poo],  black  and  silent  in  the  fading  h'ght,  he  slipped 
out  of  the  saddle  and  stood  looking  into  it  with 
arrested  breath,  open-mouthed,  his  ears  filled  with 
noises. 

Too  terrified  to  move,  young  Ashley  remained 
where  he  had  dismounted,  peering  fearfully  at  the 
water  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  A  dozen  times  the 
reflection  of  a  cloud  tricked  him  into  the  belief  that 
his  father's  stiff  body  was  floating  among  the  weeds. 
A  dozen  times  he  leaned  forward  with  a  cry,  with 
veins  tingling  with  pain. 

Suddenly  he  heard  approaching  steps  and  a  voice 
raised  in  song.  With  a  revulsion  of  feeling  that 
brought  the  sweat  to  his  forehead,  he  looked  up  and 
saw  his  father  swinging  along  the  footpath  on  the 
other  side  of  the  pool.  The  eyes  of  the  two  men 
met  simultaneously. 

Ashley  waved  his  hand.    "Hullo,  Jack!"  he  shouted. 

Young  Ashley  did  not  wait  for  his  father  to  come 
round  the  pool.  He  left  his  horse  and  ran  to  his 
father,  caught  him  by  the  shoulders  and  shook  him 
angrily. 

"  Where  have  you  been,  damn  you  ? "  he  cried 
shrilly.  "  Where  have  you  been.?  Where  have  you 
been  ? 


42  HDam's  Cla^ 

Old  Ashley  took  his  shaking  without  a  word, 
realising  instantly,  from  the  trembling  of  his  son's 
iips,  the  depth  of  feeling  which  carried  him  away. 

"  Forgive  me,  Jack,"  he  said.  "  I  ought  to  have 
warned  you.     I'm  sorry." 

"  Where  have  you  been,"  young  Ashley  repeated, 
forcing  back  a  rush  of  tears. 

"  I  had  business  in  the  town,  old  man.  I  started 
early  and  didn't  want  to  disturb  you.  Forgive  me, 
I  didn't  think  that  you'd  be  so  .  .  ." 

"  It's  all  right,"  said  young  Ashley.  "  Let's  go 
home."  But  he  took  his  father's  arm  and  held  him 
tight  with  one  hand  and  led  the  steaming  horse  with 
the  other. 

At  dinner,  and  for  the  remainder  of  the  evening, 
Ashley  knew  that  his  son  was  watching  him  closely. 
The  boy  showed  his  gratitude  and  relief  in  a  dozen 
curious  ways.  He  didn't  allow  Sloke  to  wait  upon 
him  at  the  meal,  but  himself  handed  everything  to 
his  father.  He  placed  his  chair  in  front  of  the  fire, 
and  loaded  his  pipe.  He  led  the  conversation  round 
to  impersonal  subjects,  and  drew  his  father  out.  He 
laughed  loudly  at  all  his  father's  witticisms,  and 
finally  carried  up  his  candle  to  his  bedroom. 

That  night  it  was  the  son  who  lingered  in  the 
father's  room.     Ashley  could  see  that  he  was  under 


Hbam'5  Gla^  43 

close  and  minute  inspection,  and  that  his  son's  eyes 
were  examining  every  corner  to  find  any  evidence  of 
his  visit  to  the  town.  It  was  only  when  his  father  was 
in  bed,  with  the  clothes  over  his  ears,  that  young 
Ashley  left  the  room.  Even  then  the  elder  man 
could  hear  his  son  listening  outside  the  door.  When 
at  last  young  Ashley  went  along  the  passage  and 
entered  his  own  room,  old  Ashley  crept  stealthily  out 
of  bed,  unlocked  a  drawer  in  his  dressing-table,  and 
laid  his  hand  for  a  moment  on  the  cold  barrel  of  a 
newly-purchased  revolver. 

On  his  face  was  the  curious  smile  that  he  wore  in 
tlic  early  morning. 

"  I  don't  think  it  will  be  long  before  I  shall  need 
you."  he  whispered.  "  Not  so  very  long — please 
God." 


CHAPTER  V 

The  days  lengthened.  The  hedges,  now  well 
awake,  burst  into  tender  leaf.  Celandines  suddenly 
peopled  the  ditches,  and  pompous  dandelions  stood 
about  the  fields  like  dragoon  guards  at  the  easy. 
Birds  had  got  beyond  the  lover  stage  and  were  now 
busy  with  the  business  of  life.  All  the  earth  was  up 
and  doing. 

The  sawdust  figure  of  Cheerfulness,  so  long  a 
member  of  the  A.'^hley  household,  had  gone.  Its 
place  had  been  taken  by  Cheerfulness  himself, 
rotund  and  beaming. 

Young  Ashley  no    longer   found   it    necessary   to 

keep    a    watch   upon    his    father.       The    latter    had 

entered  what  appeared  to  the  Slokes  and  the  farm 

hands    to    be   a    new   lease   of    life.       It   became   a 

commonplace   thing    to    hear    his    laugh    ring    out 

frequently,  and  to  see  him  striding  about  elastically 

with  squared  shoulders  and  head  thrown  back,  giving 

kind    words   to    all    who    worked    upon    the    farm. 

Young    Ashley    looked    like    a     dry    plant    newly 

44 


Beam's  Cla^  45 

v\'atered,  and  Sloke  and  his  wife  became  almost 
objectionably  cheerful.  The  once  quiet  farm-yard 
had  completely  shaken  off  its  depression,  and  now 
echoed  with  bright  voices  and  crisp  sounds.  The 
place,  from  end  to  end,  seemed  to  have  been  touched 
suddenly  with  the  wand  of  a  fairy. 

With  very  human  adaptability  young  Ashley  and 
the  rest  quickly  settled  down  to  the  new  manner 
and  soon  forgot  that  there  had  ever  been  an  old  one. 
No  one  noticed  the  almost  pathetic  air  of  expect- 
ancy that  sat  always  upon  the  elder  Ashley.  His 
attitude  was  that  of  a  man  listening.  His  ears  were 
tuned  to  catch  some  calling  voice.  He  spent  his 
days  in  killing  time,  metaphorically  packed  and 
ready  for  a  journey,  spoiling  for  the  word  that 
should  send  him  upon  his  way.  He  covered  up  his 
eagerness  as  well  as  he  could  with  a  restless  energy. 
But  many  times  each  day  he  fingered  the  key  of 
the  drawer  in  which  lay  his  loaded  revolver.  The 
postman  seldom  called  at  the  farm,  and  when  he 
did  call  the  letters  were  seized  upon  by  old  Ashley 
with  an  anxiety  that  made  his  fingers  tremble  and 
the  blood  rush  to  his  face. 

One  bright,  fresh  evening,  young  Ashley  got  back 
to  the  farm  with  a  keen  appetite  for  dinner  in 
advance    of    his    father    and    found    a    letter  lying 


46  Beam's  Cla^ 

upon  the  table  in  the  sittinc^-room.  The  envelope 
was  bordered  with  black  and  bore  an  Australian 
postmark. 

Young  Ashley  glanced  at  it  carelessly  and  took 
off  his  riding-boots.  A  second  time  the  letter 
caught  his  eye  lying  primly  upon  the  table.  He 
picked  it  up  and  examined  it.  It  was  addressed  in 
a  practised  handwriting  to  "  John  Everard  Campbell 
Ashley,  Esq.,  c/o  Messrs  Coutts  &  Co.,  Strand, 
London,  England.     Please  forward  immediately." 

Replacing  the  letter  upon  the  table,  young  Ashley 
carried  his  boots  out  into  the  kitchen  and  stood  them 
by  the  side  of  the  great  open  fireplace.  A  kitten 
made  a  wobbly  dash  at  his  stockinged  feet.  Young 
Ashley  stooped  and  picked  it  up,  and  held  it,  a  ball 
of  fluff,  against  his  cheek  for  a  moment.  With  an 
anxious  but  proud  cry  the  mother  leaped  out  of  a 
box  that  was  under  the  dresser  and  rubbed  against 
his  shins  with  erect  tail. 

"  All  right,  old  lady,"  said  young  Ashley.  "  I 
won't  ill-treat  your  baby.  Getting  horribly  adven- 
turous now,  ch  ?  Sr;on  he'll  be  able  to  get  along 
without  its  mother,  eh  ?     Here  you  arc,  then." 

He  dro}.ped  the  kitten  softly  back  into  the  straw 
and  watched  the  cat  spring  back  again  into  the  box 
and  stretch  itself  out  with  a  purring  cry. 


a^am's  Cla^  47 

On  his  way  up  to  his  bedroom  young  Ashley 
found  himself  in  the  dining-room,  again  fingering 
the  letter.  He  found  nothing  new  upon  the 
envelope,  no  hint  of  the  identity  of  the  writer  in 
the  address.  And  yet  the  letter  seemed  to  be  big 
with  evil.  He  threw  it  from  him  with  a  sense  of 
fright  and  stood  staring  at  it  as  though  he  expected 
it  to  explode  like  a  bomb.  Then  he  shook  himself 
with  a  laugh  and  ran  up  to  his  room. 

But  while  he  got  out  of  his  farm  clothes,  tubbed 
vigorously  and  dressed  again,  he  could  see  nothing 
but  the  letter  whichever  way  he  looked.  He  tried 
to  whistle  away  the  odd  feeling  of  impending 
trouble,  but  the  sound  died  on  his  lips.  He 
struggled  to  send  his  thoughts  along  pleasant  lines, 
but  the  black-bordered  letter  rose  up  and  formed 
a  dam. 

Returning  to  the  sitting-room  quickly  he  caught 
up  the  letter  and  took  it  to  the  fire  and  held  it 
towards  the  flame.  But  no,  it  was  addressed  to  his 
father,  and  he  drew  back  his  hand.  Finally,  he 
placed  it  face  downwards  on  the  high  mantel-board, 
saying  to  himself  that  he  would  tell  his  father  of 
tlie  thing  in  the  morning.  All  the  same,  he  spent 
a  miserable,  restless  evening. 

He   was    standing    at    the  window  when    Ashley 


48  H&am's  QlwQ 

returned.  He  noticed  that  a  queer,  eager  look  came 
into  his  father's  face  the  moment  he  entered  the 
room.  He  halted  on  the  threshold  and  stood 
with  distended  nostrils  and  with  eyes  that  searched 
the  room  like  a  dog's,  pointing. 

During  the  meal  it  seemed  to  young  Ashley  that 
his  father's  joviality  and  high  spirits  were  forced, 
and  that  while  he  talked  his  thoughts  were  else- 
where. Several  times  young  Ashley  shuddered  to 
see  his  father's  eyes  wander  to  the  mantel-board, 
uneasily,  as  though  drawn  there  by  some  irresistible 
magnet. 

After  the  meal,  the  two  men  took  up  their  accus- 
tomed places  by  the  fire.  The  nights  v/ere  still 
chilly,  and  the  glow  of  warmth  from  the  crackling 
logs  v/as  good.  The  conversation,  too  animated  at 
first,  became  intermittent,  became  one-sided,  ran  dry. 
The  elder  Ashley  laid  back  in  his  chair,  with  his  lips 
pressed  together,  and  his  eyes  crinkled  up.  His 
nervousness  was  painful  to  watch.  He  crossed  and 
re-crossed  his  legs,  drummed  his  fingers  on  the  arm 
of  his  chair,  and  ran  them  frequently  through  his 
hair  and  over  his  dry  lips. 

Young  Ashley,  filled  now  with  an  intense  desire 
to  destroy  the  letter,  eyed  his  father  from  beneath 
his  eyebrows,  and  longed  for  him  to  go  up  to  bed. 


When  at  last  he  did  rise,  young  Ashley  could 
barely  restrain  a  cry  of  warning,  when  his  father 
deliberately  turned  and  faced  the  spot  upon  the 
mantel-board  upon  which  lay  the  letter.  P.ut  the 
board  was  above  the  level  of  his  eye,  and  the  letter 
remained  undiscovered. 

As  it  was,  young  Ashley  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"  Well,  father,"  he  said  breezily,  "  what  about 
bed  ?  " 

The  elder  Ashley  made  no  reply  to  the  question. 
He  turned  to  his  son  and  looked  at  him  searchin^dy 
for  a  moment, 

"  Jack,"  he  asked,  in  a  low  voice,  "  did  anything 
come  for  me  to-night  ?  " 

Before  young  Ashley  could  answer,  Sloke  entered, 
anxious  for  a  chat  before  retiring  for  the  night. 

"  There  be  a  foine  show  o'  stars  goin'  on,  gen'lc- 
men,"  he  said  ;  "  as  foine  a  show  as  ever  Oi  remember 
scein'." 

"  That's  good,"  said  young  Ashley. 

"  All  the  same,  Oi  do  think  as  'ow  we're  for  gettin' 
a  tidy  bit  o'  rain  before  marnin'.  They  fellers  be 
in'-an'-outin'  rayther,  an'  that's  a  fact." 

"  Well,  we  can  do  with  it,"  said  young  Ashley. 
"Good-night,  Sloke." 

The  old  man  shot  a  look  of  whimsical  reprosch  at 

D 


young  Ashley,  and  directed  his  remarks  squarely  at 
his  master. 

"  T'  wold  ooman  be  tellin'  Oi  to  arst  you,  master, 
'ow  you  liked  the  mutton  to-night?  Her  was 
afeard  the  feller  'adn't  been  a-hangin'  long  enough  ; 
it  got  mixed  oop  somehow  wi'  t'  others." 

Young  Ashley  answered  for  his  father. 

"  It  was  all  right,  Sloke  ;  very  nice.  Good-night. 
We're  just  going  to  bed." 

"  Thank  fou,  Master  John,"  said  the  old  man, 
with  a  shade  of  annoyance.  "  Good-night,  master." 
He  shuffled  to  the  door.  As  he  was  going  out,  he 
turned  with  an  air  of  renewed  hope.  "  Oh  !  "  he 
said,  "  Oi  knoo  as  'ow  there  were  summat.  The 
postman  did  tell  Oi  as  'ow  there  were  a  change  o' 
Gov'ment  oop  i'  London,  master.'' 

"  Postman  ?  "  The  elder  Ashley  was  round  upon 
the  old  man  with  a  flash.  "When  did  you  see  the 
postman  ?  " 

The  blood  surged  into  young  Ashley's  face,  and 
his  heart  beat  so  loudly  that  he  was  afraid  it  would 
be  heard. 

Old  Sloke  wore  a  puzzled  expression.  "  When 
did  Oi  see  postman  ?  " 

"  Yes,  when  ?  " 

"  Well,  for  certain,  Oi  did  see  postman  this  very 


B&am's  Clai?  5' 

night  as  ever  were.  He  brought  a  letter  for  you. 
master." 

"  Letter  ?  "  snapped  Ashley.     "  What  letter  ?  " 

With  all  his  soul,  young  Ashley  wished  that  old 
Sloke  had  lost  his  memory  before  he  entered  the 
room. 

Sloke's  rheumatic  hand,  tv/isted  like  the  root  of  a 
tree,  went  up  to  the  back  of  his  head. 

"Why,  the  letter,"  he  said  slowly,  "that  Oi  did 
put  upon  the  table  afore  dinner.  'Aven't  you  'ad  it, 
master  ?  " 

"  No,"  shouted  Ashley.     "  Where  is  it  ?     Who  the 

h has  tampered    with    my   letter  ?       Damn    it  ! 

can't  you  speak,  one  of  you  ?  " 

Young  Ashley  pointed  to  the  mantel-board.  "  It's 
.  .  .  there,"  he  said. 

With  unerring  precision,  Ashley's  hand  seized 
upon  the  letter.  Trembling  and  eager,  he  carried 
it  to  the  lamp  and  held  it  in  the  circle  of  light. 

"  At  last,  at  last  !  "  he  cried  ;  "  at  last ! "  Then  he 
held  it  aloft,  with  his  arms  stretched  out.  "  Alniighty 
God,"  he  said,  "  I  give  you  thanks  .  .  ." 

He  fell  suddenly  on  his  knees,  and  with  his 
hands  over  his  face,  burst  into  a  torrent  of  tears, 

"Oh,  my  darling,  my  baby,  my  swcetheait  .  .  . 
to  be  packed   into  a  thing  like  that  and  given  to 


52  BDam'5  Cte 

the  worms.  .  .  .  Oh,  it's  damnable ;  it's  unthinkable. 
I  can't  bear  it.  .  .  .  Come  back,  even  if  you  don't 
come  back  to  me.  ...  So  exquisite  a  thing  in 
such  a  place !     Oh  .  .  .  oh  .  .  ." 

The  man's  grief  was  too  appalling  to  witness. 
Old  Sloke  hurried  away,  awe  -  stricken.  Young 
Ashley  gazed  at  his  father's  crouching  figure  for 
a  moment  with  the  most  poignant  sympathy,  and 
followed  Sloke. 

Work  had  to  be  done  in  the  morning — there 
were  the  living  to  be  fed — so  Sloke  and  his  wife 
crept  silently  to  bed. 

Not  so  young  Ashley.  With  chattering  teeth  he 
sat  down  on  the  last  stair  but  one,  with  his  hands 
pressed  over  his  ears  and  his  blood  smarting  in  his 
veins.  His  mother  was  dead — his  mother  whom  he 
did  not  remember.  The  beautiful  woman  in  the 
album  in  evening  dress,  who  had  deserted  his 
father — the  beautiful  woman  who  had  run  away 
with  his  father's  best  friend. 

It  was  the  first  time  in  his  life  that  young 
Ashley  had  come  face  to  face  with  death.  He 
was  not  horrified  or  terrified  ;  he  was  silenced, 
numbed. 

A  minute  passed  that  was  an  hour. 

Young  Ashley  started  to  find  an  arm  round  his 


a&am*s  Cla^  S3 

shoulder— a  strong  arm,  pressed  tightly.  When  it 
relaxed,  young  Ashley  rose  to  his  feet,  and  his 
father,  smiling  curiously,  passed  him  and  went 
upstairs.  Young  Ashley  went  into  the  sitting-room 
to  turn  out  the  lamp.  While  he  made  the 
windows  secure  for  the  night,  he  listened 
anxiously  for  any  unaccustomed  sound  in  the 
room  above.  His  hands  trembled  as  he  shut  the 
door,  and  his  heart  beat  quickly,  he  knew  not 
why.  Suddenly  a  loud  report  echoed  through  the 
quiet  house,  and  a  dull  thud  shook  the  ceiling. 

"  Father  !      Father  !  "    shouted   young  Ashley,  as 
he  groped  blindly  up  the  stairs. 


CHAPTER  VI 

He  heard  a  faint  laugh  as  he  flung  open  the  door 
of  his  father's  room — a  laugh  in  which  there  was  a 
note  of  triumph  and  happiness. 

Two  candles  were  burning  on  the  dressing-table. 
Their  light  fell  upon  the  figure  of  Ashley,  the  elder, 
who  lay  upon  the  floor,  in  a  pool  of  blood.  The 
black-bordered  letter  sat  coldly  upon  the  dressing- 
table. 

"  Oh,  father,"  cried  young  Ashley,  "  father  !  "  He 
tottered  to  his  knees. 

Ashley,  the  elder,  struggled  into  his  son's  arms. 
There  was  a  smile  upon  his  drawn  face. 

"  It  is  over,"  he  whispered  eagerly.  "  I  am  out 
of  hell." 

"  You  shan't  go.  You  shan't,"  burst  out  young 
Ashley  in  an  agony.  "  I  won't  let  you  go. 
Father  1 " 

A    feeble    arm    fumbled    its    way    round    young 

Ashley's  neck. 

"  No   one   can    stop    me,   Jack.      I    am    released, 
54 


H&am'5  Cla^  55 

thank  God !  Read  the  letter.  No.  Hold  me 
tight.     I  know  it.     I  will  tell  you  what  it  says." 

lie  slipped  a  little  and  seemed  to  shrink  like  a 
pricked  ball.  Young  Ashley  clung  to  him 
desperately,  unable  to  speak. 

"It  says  :  '  Effie  is  dead.  She  asked  me  to  write 
to  you,  and  send  her  love  to  you  both.'  Dear  lad, 
don't  shake  so.     I  am  so  glad  to  go." 

"  Don't  leave  me,  don't  leave  me  !  " 

"  Those  were  ray  words  to  you  not  so  long  ago. 
Let  me  go,  Jack.  I  have  shot  myself  so  that,  if 
there  is  another  life,  I  may  be  with  her  before  Frank. 
I  want  to  ask  her  not  to  go  away  from  me  again. 
Do  you  understand,  dear  lad?  I  haven't  seen  her 
for  twenty  -  five  .  .  .  years.  Don't  be  .  .  .  selfish. 
But  I  shan't  go  in  peace  unless  you  promise  me 
never  to  leave  the  farm.     Promise." 

"  I  promise,"  sobbed  young  Ashley. 

"You  are  safe  .  .  .  among  the  trees.  And  I  shall 
know  that  my  story  won't  be  repeated.  Kiss  me, 
Jack." 

Young  Ashley  kissed  the  damp  forehead.  "  Father, 
father  !  "  he  cried. 

The  feeble  arm  slipped  away  from  his  nuck. 


{pact  II 
THE    WOMAN 


CHAPTER  I 

Little  Mrs.  Blundcll — the  beautiful  Betty  Blundcll 
— addressed  her  envelope  to  Captain  Evelyn  Blundell, 
R.N.,  before  she  commenced  her  letter,  which,  in 
itself,  proves  that  little  Mrs.  Blundell  is  no  different 
from  ninety-nine  women  out  of  a  hundred. 
In  this  way,  also 

"  My  very  ownest  Hubby-man,"  she  wrote,  in  her 
ridiculously  pretty  backward  hand,  with  her  fair 
small  head  on  one  side,  her  lips  pursed  up,  her  blue 
eyes  slightly  closed — "my  very  ownest  Hubby-man, 
so  you  have  got  leave  to  come  back  to  your  lonely 
little  wife  ^.t  last,  after  three  of  the  longest, 
dullest,  most  unhappy,  most  perfectly  beastly  years 
she  has  ever  spent.  Hurrah  once,  hurrah  twice, 
hurrah  three  times,  and  one  more  hurrah  for  luck.  I 
can't  tell  you  how  deliidited  and  how  excited  I  am. 
I  feel  that  if  I  were  just  an  ordinary  woman  I  should 
dash  off  and  buy  something  I  couldn't  afford,  or  go 

in   for   a  course  of  face   massage,  or   have   my  hair 

59 


6o  a^am's  Cla^ 

waved  by  a  Paris  specialist.  But  then  I'm  not,  you 
know,  darling,  am  I  ?  The  next  six  weeks  will  seem 
longer  even  than  the  longest  of  these  three  years, 
each  of  which  has  been  an  age  in  itself.  My  dear 
old  boy,  how  brown  and  bearded  and  tobaccoy  you 
will  be,  won't  you  ?  And  how  you  will  purr,  and 
rub  your  daily  thinning  head  against  your  poor 
little  missus's  shoulder!  (How  many  esses  in 
missus's  ?     I  don't  know  !) 

"  Darling,  I  have  done  as  you  asked  me  to  do.  It 
was  rather  a  wrench  to  leave  town,  and  the  few 
friends  who  helped  to  keep  me  bright  and  cheerful. 
But  I  love  my  man,  oh,  so  dearly,  dearie  (you  know 
that,  don't  you  ?),  and  I  have  let  the  flat  for  the  rest 
of  the  summer  to  my  old  chum,  Milly  Cator,  who 
knows  you,  she  says.  She's  nothing  much  to  look 
at,  but  she's  a  genuine  good  sort,  and  I  like  her. 
She's  the  o^ily  woman  in  the  world  whom  I  would 
trust  a  yard.  Also,  lik :  the  best  little  wife  in  the 
world  ;^and  I  am,  areri't  I,  darling?),  I  have  got 
exnctly  the  rooms  you  described  in  which  v/e  are  tc 
spent  our  honeymoon  Number  Two.  (I'm  sitting  in 
one  of  them  now,  having  arrived  this  afternoon  in 
time  for  tea.)  You  wanted  to  be  five  miles  from  any 
station — well,  this  is  ten.  You  pined  to  be  in  the 
midst  of  wild,  solitary  country,  where  the  abominable 


B^am'6  Clai?  6i 

swish  of  the  sea  is  never  heard.  Very  well,  this  is 
idiotically  and  insanely  wild — almost  dangerously  so 
— as  solitary  as  Bond  Street  in  August,  and  nearly 
as  green  as  a  certain  Evelyn  used  to  be  if  ever  I 
danced  twice  running  with  any  other  man.  (Do  you 
remember  those  dear,  dear  days  ?)  Of  course  there 
is  the  usual  village  two  miles  off,  which  has  the 
usual  complem.ent  of  Red  Lions,  Cats  and  Fiddles, 
and  Rising  Suns.  Of  course  there  is  the  usual  green, 
whose  daisies  scraggy  horses  eat,  never  seeming  to 
grow  any  less  scraggy.  Of  course  there  are  the 
usual  generally  bootless  children,  with  siren  voices 
and  neglected  noses  ;  the  usual  old  men,  fans  teeth, 
sans  eyes,  sans  everything  ;  the  usual  women  with 
curvature  of  the  spine  from  so  constantly  bending 
over  the  furrows. 

"  No  one  has  ever  even  heard  of  the  sea.  At 
least  they  look  as  though  tiiey  hadn't,  which  is 
pretty  nearly  the  same  thing.  And  I  don't  tJmik 
there  is  a  Salvation  Army.  I  didn't  hear  anything 
of  it  as  I  drove  through  in  a  buggy  wliich  ought  to 
have  been  a  dog-cart,  drawn  by  a  horse  which  ought 
to  have  been  a  pony.  In  any  case,  you  may  mal^e 
your  mind  easy  as  to  shops.  For  although  there 
is  a  bootmaker,  a  tallow-chandler,  a  postmaster, 
a    fly-paper    merchant,  a    fishmonger,  an    oilman,   r. 


62  H^am'6  Clas 

sweet-stuff  manufacturer,  a  linen-draper,  a  tailor,  a 
greengrocer,  a  baker,  a  tobacconist,  and  a  butcher — 
his  name  is  Inskip — and  let  me  warn  you  against 
knocking  your  head  as  you  go  in — down  three 
wooden  steps — and  please  see  that  you  don't  tread 
on  the  kittens.     At  present  there  are  seven. 

"  There  is  no  bathroom  here  (do  you  mind  my 
babbling  on,  darling,  it's  the  next  best  thing  to 
talking  to  you,  which  is  the  best  thing  in  the  whole 
wide  world)  ;  but  they  tell  me  there  is  a  hose,  and 
that  our  nearest  neighbour  is  a  farmer  a  mile  away. 

"  The  good  people  are  as  good  as  usual,  though 
not  a  wliit  better ;  have  acres  of  kitchen  garden, 
two  children  —  boy  and  girl  —  a  grandmother,  a 
wire-haired  terrier,  who,  or  which,  has  its  chin  on 
my  foot  at  this  moment,  and  a  great  collection  of 
pigs  somewhere  about.  My  window  is  open,  and 
the  breeze  tells  me  so. 

"  They  are  open-eyed  at  all  my  luggage,  have 
never  had  lodgers  before,  have  never  been  to 
London — though  the  good  woman's  brother  is  a 
plumber  at  Whitechapel,  with  twins  and  bronchitis 
— have  no  piano,  no  books,  and  nothing  to  read 
except  a  well-selected  collection  of  texts,  which  hang 
in  clusters  over  my  bed.  So  far,  I  have  only 
committed  murder  once,  and  that   was   superfluous, 


a^am's  Cla^  63 

as  it  was   merely  a  lady-bird.     I  am   not  much    of 
a  naturalist  yet. 

"  By  the  way,  did  I  tell  you  our  nearest  neighbour 
is  a  farmer  a  mile  away  ?  How  I  am  going  to  kill 
time  till  you  come,  I  can't  conceive.  You  know 
how  I  hate  the  country.  I  think  I  shall  sit  under  a 
tree  all  day,  and  imagine  that  your  head  is  on  my 
knee.  At  any  rate,  I  shall  attend  every  service  at 
the  village  church  to  pray  that  nothing  may  happen 
to  my  dearest  husband. 

"  And  so,  good-bye,  darling.  I  will  write  to  you 
at  the  various  places  you  say  you  will  call  at  on 
your  homeward  voyage,  and  with  all  my  love,  every 
little  bit  of  it,  now  and  for  ever. — Your  own 

"  Betty. 

"  P.S, — Hurry,  hurry,  hurry,  'cos  I  wants  yer 
mighty  badly     yeS;  I  does,  I  does,  I  do." 


CHAPTER  I J 
^ND  a^ain  in  this  way: 

"Mv  Darling  Milly,— Before  I  do  anything 
else,  I  feel  I  must  write  and  thank  you  for  being 
such  a  brick.  If  you  hadn't  taken  my  flat  just  when 
you  did,  old  girl,  I  should  have  been  regularly  in  the 
proverbial  cart.  But  of  course,  having  been  away, 
\'0u  don't  know  the  circumstances  which  led  to  my 
being  obliged  to  evacuate  the  untenable  position,  do 
you  ?  Well,  I'll  tell  you,  if  you  will  swear  by  all 
you  hold  sacred — if  there  is  anything  in  the  world 
you  do  hold  sacred— to  tear  this  letter  up  directly 
you  have  read  it. 

"  You  remember  that  before  you  went  away  at 
the  beginning  of  the  season  Reggie  Rawnsley 
brought  a  man  named  Worthing,  Valentine 
Worthing,  to  the  flat  to  tea  ?  Do  you  ?  The  man 
with  the  face  of  a  Greek  god,  and  the  body  of  c; 
Satyr,  whom  we  had  both  noticed  got  up  to  repre- 
sent Cupid  at   the  Carnival  at  Prince's  ?     That  tes 

64 


HDam'6  Giai?  05 

was  the  first  of  many  teas,  many  dinners,  many 
suppers.  You  know  I  always  liked  books  I  couldn't 
understand,  and  people — by  people  I  mean  men — 
it  was  impossible  to  see  through  at  a  first  glance. 
I  liked  Valentine  for  that  very  reason.  He  puzzled 
me.  I  couldn't  make  out  whether  he  knew  nothing 
or  everything.  When  I  looked  at  his  simply 
beautiful  face,  so  open,  so  frank,  so  regular,  so 
unlined,  so — but  it  isn't  the  word  I  want — innocent, 
and  then  glanced  down  at  his  almost  humped  back, 
his  claw-like  hands,  his  withered  little  legs,  I  felt 
bound  to  get  at  the  bottom  of  him,  to  study  him, 
to  find  out  to  the  last  inch  just  what  manner  of 
man  he  was. 

"  I  dropped  Reggie  Rawnsley  —  (it  was  more 
difficult  than  I  thought.  The  silly  boy  said  his 
heart  would  break,  and  that  I  had  made  him  loathe 
women!  How  absurd  that  &\Qry young  man  should 
say  the  same  thing  under  the  same  circumstances  !  ) 
and  concentrated  my  attention  on  Valentine 
Worthing.  When  I  look  back  upon  the  duel  we 
fought,  my  heart  palpitates  as  though  I  had  been 
fool  enough  to  run  a  mile.  I  retired  from  the  world, 
gave  up  all  engagements,  and  spent  my  days  at  the 
flat,  and  my  evenings  at  places  where  society  doesn't 
congregate.     We   were   inseparable.     He   would   be 


66  H&am'6  Cla^ 

with  me  about  midday,  half  an  hour  after  his 
advance-guard,  a  florist's  shop-load  of  flowers.  Till 
six  o'clock  he  would  sit  at  the  piano,  playing 
the  most  exquisite  airs  to  me,  and  singing  little 
strange,  pathetic  songs  that  crept  into  my  veins  and 
filled  me  with  electricity,  and  made  me  cry  like  a 
baby,  if  ever  he  spoke — and  he  rarely  did  speak — 
he  would  say  little  simple,  boyish,  enthusiastic  things 
about  art  and  literature  and  religion,  the  kind  of 
things  one  can  imagine  a  convent  girl  saying.  Then, 
about  six  o'clock  every  evening  he  would  climb  off 
the  music-stool,  give  a  great  sigh,  touch  my  hand 
almost  reverently  with  the  tips  of  his  fingers,  and  go 
home  to  dress.  At  ei^ht  o'clock  the  bell  would  ring, 
and  I  would  go  dov/n  and  find  him  waiting  for  me 
in  his  brougham,  scented  and  curled,  no  longer  the 
Greek  god,  but  an  old  blase  man,  with  leering  eyes, 
and  keen,  witt)%  blasphemous,  epigrammatic  tongue. 
And  we  would  dine  together,  and  go  to  some  out- 
of-the-way  music-hall  ana  then  have  supper.  The 
whole  time  he  would  never  cease  talking — tearing 
every  good  o-d-fashioncd  thing  to  shreds,  heaping 
ridicule  on  cha.^;tity,  faith,  love,  honesty ;  pouring 
scorn  on  the  idea  of  a  future  life,  and  gradually 
fi^hng  me  witli  dre  .d,  ioatphng,  and  contempt. 
"  Tlien    he    would    drive    me    home,    stand    for   a 


HOam's  Clas  67 

moment  gripping  my  hand  in  both  his  own, 
looking  at  me  with  eyes  in  which  there  was  a  kind 
of  lurking  sneer,  and  then  leave  me  —  trembling, 
limp,  disgusted,  with  all  my  flesh  cockled,  as  though 
a  bat  had  touched  my  mouth  with  its  wing.  Every 
night  I  determined  I  would  never  see  him  again.  I 
even  went  so  far,  ten  or  eleven  times,  as  to  tell  Jane 
on  no  account  to  let  him  come  in  again.  But  every 
morning  his  flowers  would  come  with  some  little, 
simple,  respectful  greeting  written  upon  a  card, 
and,  filled  with  curiosity  to  see  what  his  mood 
would  be,  I  would  tell  Jane  to  let  him  in  the 
moment  he  arrived.  And  so  it  went  on.  Every 
day  he  would  play  and  sing,  and  make  me  cry, 
every  night  he  would  fill  me  with  nausea.  And 
the  extraordinary  thing  about  him  was  that  when 
he  disgusted  and  frightened  me  most,  then  was 
his  fascination  most  strong.  But  at  last  it  had  to 
end.  One  night  coming  home  in  his  carriage.  .  .  . 
Pouf !  I  can't  write  it ;  it  makes  me  ill.  When  I 
got  home  I  packed  up  all  my  things,  left  the  keys 
with  Jane,  and  caught  the  workmen's  train — they 
must  have  taken  me  for  a  mad  woman,  although  I 
must  own  I  looked  awfully  sweet  with  a  most 
becoming  pallor  on  my  cheeks,  and  my  eyes  wide 
open,  and  very  blue — to  Didcot.      I    waited    at   an 


68  Beam's  Cla^ 

hotel  till  a  respectable  time  of  day,  and  then  drove 
over  to  my  father-in-law's  place,  some  miles  out. 
He  is  a  Dean,  you  know,  and  most  ridicu- 
lously rural.  I  thought  that,  if  I  put  myself, 
metaphorically  speaking,  upon  a  diet  of  beer, 
the  constant  taste  of  absinthe  would  leave 
me. 

"  And  then  I  got  Evelyn's  letter,  in  which  he  said 
he  was  coming  home,  and  of  course  that  was  a  blow. 
I  did  think  he  was  pretty  sure  to  give  me  another 
free  year.  However,  I  mustn't  grumble.  The  three 
years  he  has  been  away  have  been  the  happiest  years 
of  my  life.  Do  you  remember  my  saying  to  you  two 
minutes  after  he  had  left  the  house — his  eyes  were 
full  of  tears — as  soon  as  I  was  able  to  stop  sobbing 
that  I  would  live  every  moment  of  my  life  till  he 
came  back  ?  My  goodness,  Milly,  I  have  lived  them 
too  !     I  have  I 

"You  really  were  a  dear  to  take  the  flat  directly 
I  wired  to  you.  Evelyn  wanted  me  to  get  rooms 
in  some  very  quiet  country  place,  and  wait  for  him, 
for  the  honeymoon  Number  Two.  (Goodness !  how 
I  laughed.)  And  here  I  am  in  about  the  most 
benighted,  God-forgotten  place  upon  the  map,  I 
verily  believe.  Of  course,  it's  very  lovely  and  all 
that,   but  you   know  my  idea  of  scenery — the  sky- 


S^am'5  Clas  69 

line    of    the    Knightsbridge    houses    as    seen    any 
morning  from  the  Row. 

"  Of  course  I  shouldn't  have  left  town  at  all, 
but  for  Valentine  Worthing. 

"  What  I  am  going  to  do  to  kill  time  here  I  can't 
conceive.  There  is  not  even  a  resident  parson  in 
the  place  !  There  is,  I  am  glad  to  hear,  a  farmer 
living  a  mile  away.  Perhaps,  only  perhaps,  he  may 
be  worth  studying.  Well,  good-bye  till  to-morrow. 
I'll  let  you  know  how  I  get  on.  In  six  weeks' 
time  all  fun  will  be  at  an  end,  and  I  shall  no  longer 
be  a  ...  is  free  agent  a  good  word  ? — Yours, 

"  Betty." 


CHAPTER  III 

Little  Mrs.  Blundell  threw  her  pen  down,  rose 
and  stretched  herself,  yawning  in  a  bored  way, 
yawning  as  a  martyr  yawns. 

For  a  moment  she  stood  in  the  middle  of  the 
slanting-ceilinged  room,  upon  the  square  patch  of 
hideously  cheap  carpet,  and  tried  to  imagine  that 
she  could  hear  the  never-ending  hansom  jingling 
by,  the  sound  of  the  shrill,  impatient  cab-whistle, 
the  jolting  of  'bus-wheels,  the  nasal  voices  of  brisk 
tradesmen,  the  cockney  twitterings  of  sparrows. 

For  a  moment  she  stood  with  closed  eyes  trying 

to  see  the  misshapen  figure  of  Valentine  Worthing 

perched    upon    a    piano-stool,  flooding  the    air  with 

minor    chords,    and    piercing     her    heart    with    his 

plaintive    notes.     For   a    moment,   with    her    arms 

flung  out,  her  head  thrown  back,  her  eyes  sparkling 

with    excitement    and    dare-devilry,    she     tried    to 

persuade    herself    that    her    husband    had    only    a 

moment  ago  left  her  for  three  years,  that  for  three 

70 


HDain'9  Clag  71 

long,  delightful,  unhampered  years  the  world,  the 
hitherto  unexplored  world,  was  hers  to  discover. 

In  the  garden  behind  the  cottage  a  baby  started 
crying,  and  reality  forced  its  huge  hob-nailed  boot 
into  the  door  and  drove  make-believe  ignominiously 
out  of  the  window.  Before  the  baby  had  been 
hushed  and  soothed  into  silence,  Mrs.  Blundell's 
eyes  were  hard  and  discontented  again. 

It  was  all  so  quiet,  so  unexciting,  so  lethargic.  In 
the  place  of  all  the  dear,  familiar  noises  of  London, 
there  were  only  to  be  heard  the  soothing  swish  of 
the  blades  of  corn  rubbing  shoulders  under  the 
gentle  hand  of  the  breeze ;  the  quiet  cooing  of  doves 
on  the  roof;  the  distant  music  of  sheep-bells  playing 
an  unaccompanied  quartet ;  the  occasional  crowing 
of  some  egotistical  cock,  and  the  murmur  of 
admiration  from  the  hens  who  formed  his  harem  ; 
the  bumpings  and  dumpings  of  a  bustling  housewife 
about  the  kitchen  below  ;  the  happy  growlings  of 
a  bunch  of  puppies  biting  each  other's  ears  ;  the 
intermittent  song  of  a  boy  digging  in  the  kitchen 
garden  ;  the  all-pervading  murmur  of  the  midsummer 
bee. 

But  above  all  these  irritating  sounds  there  was  one 
which  got  upon  Betty  Blundell's  nerves  until  she  felt 
like  screaming  or  breaking  something.     It  was  the 


72  Beam's  Clas 

regular  hush-hush-hush  which  came  into  the  window 
at  the  other  end  of  the  room,  the  window  which 
looked  out   upon  the  placid  garden  of  the  cottage. 

For  a  moment  she  stood  listening  to  it,  wondering 
what  idiot  could  be  doing  it.  Then,  as  it  continued 
with  almost  the  regularity  of  the  swinging  of  a 
pendulum,  she  gave  a  gasp  of  anger,  and  with  the 
blood  eddying  about  her  brain,  hurried  across  the 
room  to  the  window  to  shout  at  the  person  who 
could  be  doing  it  only  on  purpose  to  upset  her 
already  tingling  nerves. 

With  her  beautiful  face  distorted  with  irritation 
Betty  put  her  head  out  of  the  open  window,  flinging 
aside  the  screen  of  honeysuckle  which  hung  down 
over  it. 

Leaning  anxiously  over  a  cradle,  her  young  eyes 
filled  with  maternal  concern,  looking  down  at  the 
flushed  and  creased  face  of  a  great  baby  boy,  stood 
a  little  rough-shod  girl  of  nine  or  ten.  Her  lips 
were  wide  apart  hushing  loudly  as  with  both  hands 
she  dandled  the  cradle  to  and  fro,  beating  time  with 
one  of  her  feet. 

The  lines  of  irritation  gradually  died  out  of 
Betty's  face  and  an  expression  of  great  interest  came 
instead.  With  intense  curiosity  she  watched  every 
movement  made  by  the  little  girl,  noted  every  look 


H^am'6  Cla^  73 

that  came  into  her  eyes.  How,  after  vigorously 
hushing  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  she  suddenly  bent 
over  the  baby's  face,  and  while  still  rocking  the 
cradle  as  regularly  as  ever,  listened  eagerly  to  its 
breathing.  How,  apparently  not  quite  satisfied  that 
sleep  had  come,  she  touched,  still  rocking,  but  more 
gently  now — the  lids  of  the  baby's  eyes  with  the 
tips  of  her  finger.  How,  with  fierce  eyebrows  and 
threatening  eyes,  she  raised  a  peremptory  finger  at 
one  of  the  pups  which,  tumbling  head  over  heals  out 
of  the  house,  made  a  wobbly  dash  at  her  calf.  And 
how,  finally,  hushing  no  longer,  she  stopped  the 
rocking  of  the  cradle,  gave  a  tender  touch  to  the 
blanket  about  the  baby's  ears,  and  crept  quietly, 
standing  still  every  now  and  then  to  listen,  into  the 
house. 

"  How  extraordinary  it  is,"  said  Betty  to  herself; 
"she  couldn't  be  more  patient  if  the  thing  were  her 
own.  I  wonder  why  I  wasn't  born  a  mother  like  that 
little  country  girl.  .  .  .  Fancy  me,  a   mother!  .  .  ." 


CHAPTER  IV 

Suddenly  Betty  BlundeH's  expression  of  settled 
boredom  changed  to  one  of  wide-awake  surprise 
and  curiosity. 

The  bow-window  in  the  front  room  into  which 
she  had  returned,  peered  through  thickly-cHmbing 
roses  into  the  road.  Along  this  road,  which  begun 
at  the  farm  and  ended  at  the  village  Whiteleys, 
swung  one  of  the  hugest,  broadest  -  shouldered, 
biggest-footed,  best-looking  men  little  INIrs.  Blundell 
had  ever  seen. 

As  he  came  level  with  the  window,  his  profile, 
slightly  shaded  by  a  dark  tweed  cap,  stood  out  in 
clean-cut  strength  against  the  unclouded  sky.  As 
he  moved,  always  with  the  same  long,  well-oiied 
stride,  a  pair  of  keen  ej'^es  scanned  every  other  blade 
of  rapidly-yellowing  corn  with  pride,  affection,  and 
paternal  anxiety. 

Betty  ran  to  the  door  quickly.  "Mrs.  Weeks, 
Mrs.  Weeks!" 

From  the  distance  came  tiie  sound  of  a  flat  iron 
74 


HDain's  Cla^  is 

dropped,  with  evident  fluster,  upon  its  metal  stand, 
followed  by  a  shuffling  of  heavy  feet 

«  Mrs.  Weeks ! " 

"Yes'm." 

The  voice,  oily  and  deferential,  and  filled  with 
concern,  came  from  the  narrow,  winding  stairs. 

"  Come  quickly.     I  want  to  speak  to  you." 

Mrs.  Blundell  had  thrown  the  window  higher, 
had  moved  the  bamboo  table  away,  and  was  leaning 
out,  framed  in  roses. 

With  panting  breath,  and  with  her  apron  twisted 
round  her  plump  bare  arms,  Mrs.  Weeks  hurried  in. 

"Mrs.  Weeks,"  said  little  Mrs.  Blundell,  her  voice 
vibrating  with  excitement,  "come  to  the  window 
quickly,  look  out  to  the  right,  and  tell  me  who  that 
gentleman  is  in  brown  boots  and  gaiters." 

Flushed,  billowy,  shiny  Mrs.  Weeks  did  as  she 
was  bid.  Almost  at  once  she  drew  in  her  head, 
turning  a  hearty  laugh  into  a  respectful  cough. 

"That  be  no  gentelman,  'm.    That  be  just  fi:rrmurr." 

"Do  you  mean  the  usual  kind  of  thing?" 

"  Sames  always,  'm." 

"Do  you  mean  a  man  who  grows  potatoes  and 
cabbages,  and  all  that?" 

"  An'  corrn,  an'  burrley,  an'  oerrts,"  said  Mrs. 
Weeks,  with  her  Sunday  smile,  **  an'  that  loike,  that's 


76  H^am*s  Cla^ 

it,  'm."  Then,  drawing  her  muscular,  sunburnt  arm 
from  beneath  its  hiding-place,  she  pointed  out  of  the 
window.  "  That's  'is  corrn  opposite,  an'  'is  furrm's 
down  the  road."  Whereupon,  suddenly  remembering 
that  her  arm  was  bare,  she  murmured  a  confused 
apology,  blushed  painfully,  giggled,  and  thrust  her 
arm  out  of  sight  again. 

Mrs.  Blundell  had  said  "Really;  dear  me!"  in  a 
vacant,  polite  way,  and  had  gone  back  to  the  window. 

With  her  dainty  elbows  on  the  sill  she  leant  her 
chin  on  both  her  hands.  The  clustering  roses, 
tumbling  into  bloom  over  each  other's  shoulders, 
scrambled  to  touch  her  hair.  With  her  blue  eyes 
slightly  screwed  up,  she  followed  the  swinging  figure 
of  the  big,  muscular  man  until,  passing  between  the 
two  fields  of  corn  which  waved  their  heads  towards 
him  with  affectionate  deference,  he  grew  smaller 
and  smaller,  became  a  smudge,  a  stain,  a  speck 
upon  the  enormous  golden  sea,  and  disappeared. 

Round  Mrs.  Blundell's  delicate  mouth  there  crept 
a  tinge  of  smile.  In  her  eyes  a  growing  expectation 
and  curiosity,  mingled  with  relief  and  surprise. 

She  turned  to  Mrs.  Weeks,  who,  it  was  plain  to  see, 
was  itching  to  talk,  and  gave  her  an  encouraging  smile. 

"  He  certainly  doesn't  look  a  bit  like  one's  idea 
of  a  farmer,"  she  said.     "If  you  hadn't  told  me  so, 


Beam's  Cla^  77 

— and  of  course,  you  know — I  should  have  said 
that  he  was  a  soldier." 

While  she  made  these  remarks  in  her  deliciously 
soft  voice  and  clear,  almost  precise  enunciation, 
Mrs.  Blundell  unstrapped  a  leather  case  of  mani- 
cure implements,  sat  down  by  the  side  of  the  table, 
carefully  spread  a  white  cloth  over  her  knees,  and 
commenced  to  rub  a  pink  paste  upon  her  exquisitely- 
shaped  nails. 

"  I  shall  want  a  bowl  of  boiling  water — quite 
boiling — if  you  please,  Mrs.  Weeks." 

With  an  air  of  disappointment  at  being  dismissed 
before  she  could  enter  upon  a  nice  talk  with  the 
wonderful  lady  from  London,  Mrs.  Weeks  turned 
hastily  towards  the  door. 

"But  there  is  no  immediate  hurry,"  added  Mrs. 
Blundell.  "  Sit  down  and  tell  me  about  the  farmer. 
I  like  to  take  an  interest  in  everyone  who  happens 
to  live  where  I  may  be  staying." 

"Oh,  thank  you,  'm,"  murmured  the  gratified 
woman,  gladly  subsiding  into  a  chair. 

She  preened  herself,  and  swallowed  once  or  twice, 
and  folded  her  capable  arms  into  her  apron,  and 
rustled  like  a  hen  preparing  for  an  earth-bath.  Mrs. 
Blundell  noticed  that  she  crossed  her  feet  primly  as 
she  had  seen  little  school-girls  do  in  village  schools 


78  aC)am'9  Cla^ 

when  the  Vicar  had  personally  conducted  her  on 
a  tour  of  inspection.  The  elastic  spring  of  her 
boots  had  worn  out,  and  the  tips  of  once  bright 
patent  leather  had  turned  brown.  And  Mrs.  Blundell 
wondered  how  any  man  could  bring  himself  to  marry 
any  woman  with  things  so  large  and  ungainly. 

"  Let  us  begin  with  his  name,"  she  said,  smiling 
with  immense  condescension. 

"  Hashley,  'm,"  said  Mrs.  Weeks. 

"Hashley?    Quite  an  uncommon  name,  at  any  rate." 

*'  No,  'm,  beggin'  your  pardon.  Not  Hashley — 
but  Hashley.'^ 

"Oh,  Ashley.     I   see!" 

Mrs.    Weeks    smiled    at   her    lodger   indulgently. 

"Yes,  that's  it,  'm,  Hashley.  'E  were  called 
young  Mr.  Hashley  until  'is  father  were  took — 
leastways, 'e  weren't  took,  as  you  may  say.  Properly 
speakin',  'e  went." 

Betty  ]51undell  looked  politely  puzzled.  "  I  don't 
t/a/i/j  I  quite  .  .  ." 

"By  that  I  mean,  'm,  as  'ow  'e  didn't  die  a 
nat'ral  death  same  as  I  'ope  and  trust,  with  God's 
blessing,  you  and  me  will,  'm.  .  .  ." 

"  Thank  you,  Mrs.  Weeks." 

Mrs.  Weeks  looked  round  the  little  room  with  an 
air  of  mystery  and  lowered  her  voice. 


Beam's  Cla^  79 

"  No,  'm,  hold  Mr.  Hashley,  as  'e  were  allays  called 
— why,  I  don't  rightly  know,  seein'  as  'ow  'e  were  not 
hold  as  hold  is  reckoned  in  these  parts  —  a  fine, 
hupstandin'  man,  not  a  day  mor'n  fifty,  if  as  much 
— Alf,  that's  my  'usband,  stood  out  again  Mr.  Burrage, 
'im  as  keeps  the  *  H'Angler,'  wot  you  may  'ave 
noticed  on  the  right-'and  side  of  the  Green  a-comin' 
up,  with  geraniums  in  the  winder-boxes,  and  a  notice 
as  to  accommodation  for  motors,  as  only  one  'as  ever 
bin  throtigh,  and  a  fine  stir  it  did  make  in  the  place, 
to  be  sure, — as  'ow  the  departed  were  forty-height ; 
but  has  there  were  no  lins  on  the  stone  to  say  so,  of 
course  the  two  shillin'  never  changed  'ands,  an'  glad 
I  were,  'm,  seein'  as  'ow  two  shillin'  is  two  shillin'  in 
these  crool  times,  an'  .  .  ." 

"What  did  he  do,  then?"  asked  Mrs.  Blundell. 

"'E  shot  'isself,  'm,  on  the  day  as  'ow  'e  got  a 
letter  with  a  mournin'  band  from  far-off  parts." 

Mrs.  Blundell  shuddered  and  put  some  of  the  pink 
paste  on  her  finger,  which  she  then  carefully  removed, 

"  Why  ?  " 

"  Ah,  no  one  knows,  'm,  nor  dared  arst  Mr,  John, 
who  spoke  not  a  word  of  any  sort  or  kind  to  a  living 
creature  for  two  months  an'  four  days." 

"And  is  John  the  only  son?" 

"Ah,  'm,  'ow  do  we  know  as  'ow  Mr.  John  is  a  son  ?  " 


8o  Hbain'6  Clas 

"  Oh,  there  is  a  mystery  about  that,  is  there  ?  " 

"Not  wat  you  may  call  a  mystery,  'm,  but  a 
nat'ral  anxiety.  The  departed  did  arrive  at  the 
furrm  twenty-five  years  ago  with  Mr.  John  as  a  baby. 
That's  not  denied,  and  lot's  o'  talk  there  were  at 
the  time,  that's  true,  seein'  as  'ow  hold  Mr.  Hashley 
bought  out  Mr.  Jenkins,  whose  fam'ly  'ad  bin  there 
gettin'  on  fer  two  'undred  year,  an'  all,  an'  'e  did 
call  the  infant  '  my  son ' ;  that  I  know  for  a  first-'and 
fact,  because  Mrs.  Sloke,  wot  with  'er  old  man,  by 
which  I  mean  'usband,  'm, — 'as  done  for  'em  up  at 
the  furrm  from  the  first,  is  my  haunt  on  my  Alfs 
side,  'as  a-told  me  so  many  time,  an'  a  fine  place  it 
'as  bin  for  'em  too,  that's  certain,  only  two  to  do  for, 
an'  them  mostly  out  an'  about,  an'  not  fussy  heaters 
neither,  an'  no  company,  not  a  soul  ever  crossin' 
the  threshold  these  five-an'-twenty  year,  an'  only  a 
letter  once  in  a  way  so  as  to  make  it  the  talk  o' 
the  village." 

"  Strange  people,  Mrs.  Weeks." 

"  Ah,  you  may  say  so,  'm,  an'  keep  to  theirselves 
too,  like  the  'ermits  of  the  past,  but  kind  to  the  furrm 
'ands,  for  all  that,  an'  no  lack  of  money  neither,  all 
the  himplements  on  the  furrm  comin'  down  from 
London  as  new  as  possible,  same  as  no  one  else  'ad 
for    miles   round,   and    some   'ad   never   seen    afore. 


Suspicious  things,  some  of  'em,  wot  made  small 
work  of  a  corn-field,  laying  of  it  out,  when  ripe,  in  a 
manner  not  easy  to  fathom." 

Mrs.  Blundell,  listening  attentively,  began  to  rub 
her  nails  lightly  with  a  pad. 

"  I  suppose  Mr.  Ashley  and  his  son  went  to 
London  for  these  things  from  time  to  time  ?  " 

*'  Went  to  London,  'm  ? "  echoed  Mrs.  Weeks. 
"  If  you'll  believe  me — and  I  speak  the  Gospel  truth, 
so  'elp  me,  an'  why  shouldn't  I,  'avin'  no  purpose  to 
serve  for  or  against — these  two  were  never  known  to 
leave  the  furrm  the  'ole  time,  no,  nor  pass  through  the 
village  neither,  unless  to  ride  or  drive  to  the  station 
to  give  orders  as  to  one  of  the  himplements  of  wot 
I've  spoke,  mostly  these  journeys  being  left  to  Mr. 
Sloke,  who  did  all  the  outside  work,  such  as  seein'  to 
the  sales,  and  takin'  the  animals  to  market,  and  such 
like  ;  and  well  'e  sold  too,  bein'  a  capable  feller,  born 
and  bred  to  the  work  and  likin'  it  and  them  as  'e 
served,  and  repeatin'  nothin',  not  so  much  as  to  give 
a  key  to  them  as  were  interested,  nor  my  haunt 
neither,  which  is  curious,  seein'  as  'ow  she  were  a 
big  talker  as  a  girl." 

"  But  surely,"  asked  Mrs.  Blundell,  busily 
polishing,  "  some  female  relations  of  the  father  paid 
a  visit  at  one  time  or  another?" 

F 


82  a^am'0  Clas 

"Never  a  suspicion  of  a  ladywere  known  to  enter  that 
there  'ouse,  'm,  I  can  vouch,"  said  Mrs.  Weeks  firmly, 
"  But  was  old  Mr.  Ashley  a  widower,  then  ?  " 
"  Ah,  *m,  who  can  tell  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Weeks,  shaking 
her  head.  "  From  one  little  thing  an'  another  wot  I 
pieced  together  like,  an'  from  lookin'  closely  at  hold 
Mr.  Hashley's  face  when  'e  did  pass  the  cottage,  it's 
my  opinion  as  'ow  'e  nursed  a  wrong — ah,  an'  others 
bore  me  cut  in  that  too — even  haunt,  when  I  did  get 
'er  to  speak  about  it,  which  was  onest,  when  she 
come  'ere  for  a  bite  after  'elpin'  to  lay  my  little  Alf 
to  rest,  as  was  carried  off  with  the  croop — poor  little 
mite  ! — aged  two,  and  'im  as  weighed  two  ounces 
more  when  newly  born  than  any  other  male  infant 
since  '64,  in  these  'ere  parts,  and  proud  I  were, 
though  modest  being  my  first,  wot  come  upon  me 
sooner  than  'e  ought,  as  tradition  goes,  my  Alf  bein' 
a  wheedlin'  lover,  wot  never  took  no  for  an  answer, 
beggin'  your  pardon,  'm,  for  alludin'  to  such  matters, 
at  which  I  look  back  now  with  hindulgence,  there 
bein'  only  a  little  chaff  at  the  time,  an'  a  very  usual 
thing  with  h'onest  people  who  'ad  fixed  the  day, 
an'  that." 

"And  so,"  said  Mrs.  Blundell,  "young  Mr.  Ashley 
has  never  met  a — a  person  like  myself  in  all  his  life, 
I  take  it  ? " 


B&am's  Clai?  83 

"  Like  you,  'm,"  cried  Mrs.  Weeks,  her  voice  filled 
with  genuine  admiration,  "  never  !  Poor  feller,  I 
don't  reely  believe  as  'ow  he  dreams  as  such 
creatures  are — meanin'  creatures  in  its  best  sense, 
'm,  that  I  do  assure  you — having  reely  better  have 
said  ladies  in  their  own  right.  If  you  ask  me,  'm,  I 
do  think  that  the  sight  of  you  would  fairly  rumple 
young  Mr.  Hashley — yes,  even  'im,  as  looks  so 
determined  and  closed  in,  as  I  call  it,  an'  always 
in  bearin'  reins,  so  to  speak." 

Mrs.  Weeks  gave  an  involuntarily  chuckle,  which 
she  quickly,  with  slightly  heightened  colour,  turned 
into  a  discreet  cough. 

Mrs.  Blundell  laughed  a  ripple  of  effortless 
laughter,  in  which  there  was  a  note  of  excitement, 
and  half  turning  her  back  to  her  landlady,  com- 
menced touching  things  on  the  bamboo  table,  in 
the  way  civilised  women  have  of  letting  one  know 
that  they  have  had  enough  of  one.  With  that 
peculiar  instinct  which  is  born  and  not  bred  in 
women,  Mrs.  Weeks  murmured  that  her  iron  would 
be  getting  cold,  and  made  her  way  to  the  door. 

"  Oh,  and  Mrs.  Weeks,  don't  forget  the  boiling 
water,  and  I  should  like  tea  about  nine  o'clock,  please, 
in  a  nice  big  pot.  The  dinner  was  excellent.  I  am 
just  going  for  a  little  walk." 


84  H^am*s  Clas 

The  heavy,  pleased,  flat  footsteps  of  Mrs.  Weeks 
sounded  on  the  stairs.  In  the  kitchen  below  began 
the  deep  rumble  of  a  man's  voice,  the  noise  of  a 
poker  thrust  into  a  fire,  and  the  pattering  of  children's 
feet  upon  a  red-tiled  floor.  Without,  sparrows 
chattered  in  the  ivy,  a  quiet  breeze  rubbed  the  roses 
together,  the  distant  tinkle  of  a  sheep-bell  floated 
imperceptibly  by. 

Little  Mrs.  Blundell  put  her  letters  into  the  pocket 
of  an  expensively-simple  muslin  frock,  and  crossed 
the  sloping  floor  of  her  oak-beamed  sitting-room 
into  her  bedroom.  She  emerged  from  it,  after  quite 
a  little  while,  with  a  smile  on  her  lips,  and  a  very 
clever,  poppy-covered  hat  set  upon  a  head  of  hair 
which  rivalled  the  ripest  corn. 

"  No,"  she  said  aloud,  standing  on  a  chair  to  get  a 
full-length  glimpse  of  herself  in  the  square  of  cheap 
looking-glass  over  the  narrow  mantel-board — "  no,  I 
don't  fancy  it  will  be  so  difficult  to  kill  time  here 
after  all." 

And  then,  with  her  sweet  face  glowing,  her  eyes 
dancing,  and  carrying  her  head  slightly  on  one  side, 
like  an  analytical  chemist  starting  on  a  new 
experiment,  Betty  Blundell  tripped  downstairs, 
and  took  the  turning  to  the  right. 


CHAPTER  V 

Several  times  a  year,  during  the  twenty-five  odd 
years  of  his  outlandish  life,  John  Ashley  had  passed 
along  the  road  which  ran,  under  the  best  parlour 
window  of  Mrs.  Weeks'  cottage,  from  his  farm  to 
the  village.  At  first  mostly  on  a  wiry,  electrical 
pony,  or  with  quick,  eager,  boyish  steps;  later,  on 
a  stout,  unpretentious  mare  of  slate-roofed  hue,  or 
with  the  steady,  long,  set-teeth  swing,  which  had 
brought  something  of  the  devil  into  Mrs.  Blundell's 
big  blue  eyes. 

Since  the  death  of  his  father,  alone,  sometimes 
restlessly,  impatiently,  but  always  to  the  letter, 
his  life  had  been  spent  in  the  carrying  out  of  his 
promise. 

So  it  came  to  pass  that  John  Ashley,  at  twenty-five 
odd  years  of  age,  had  never  left  his  village. 

Nature,  his  books,  his  fields,  his  animals,  and  his 

memory  had  been  Ashley's  only  companions  since  his 

father's  death.     Since  then  he  had  spoken  merely  to 

his  farm  hands,  to  other  farmers,  to  buyers,  to  his 

85 


86  H&am*6  Clas 

old  pensioners  in  the  village,  and  the  few  villagers 
themselves.  He  had  never  seen  a  woman  of  his  own 
class — a  woman  who  wore  silk  linings  to  her  skirts  ; 
and  he  had  no  wish,  no  desire  to  do  so.  John 
Ashley,  unique  among  men,  was  contented  with  his 
lot.  He  had  no  other  ambitions  than  to  see  his 
crops  ripen,  to  keep  his  animals  healthy,  to  sell  his 
sheep  well,  to  sleep  soundly  at  night.  Nature  was 
his  one  intimate  friend  and  companion.  Her  fickle 
moods  exercised  a  peculiar  fascination.  He  never 
grew  tired  of  her,  never  grew  angry  with  her.  She 
was  his  mistress  and  his  master.  He  found  even  ia 
her  tyranny  and  bad  temper  something  to  admire 
and  wonder  at.  In  her  beauty  and  peacefulness 
and  prodigality  everything  to  worship. 

Of  so-called  civilisation  as  practised  in  cities  he 
knew  nothing.  From  the  echoes  of  it  that  reached 
him  in  his  solitude  it  seemed  to  him  to  be  a 
strange  and  hopeless  chaos.  He  knew  nothing  of 
the  lies,  the  humbug,  the  jealousies,  the  misrepre- 
sentations, the  vulgarity  of  party  politics  ;  nothing 
of  modern  literature  or  of  the  drama.  He  never 
saw  a  newspaper  or  followed  the  impotent  efforts 
of  scientists  to  alter  the  laws  of  Nature.  Of  wars, 
of  creeds,  of  theories,  he  knew  nothing.  That 
much  -  abused   word    religion    conveyed    nothing   to 


Beam's  Cla^  »7 

his  mind.  Of  the  Bible  story  he  was,  happily, 
entirely  ignorant  His  belief  in  a  Creator,  all 
powerful,  all  wise,  all  loving,  all  merciful,  was, 
therefore,  rock-like.  The  simplicity  of  his  belief 
was  never  interfered  with  and  undermined  by  the 
masses  of  man  -  made  rules  and  foolish  creeds 
which  are  the  curses  of  an  egotistical  and  charlatan 
age.  His  church  was  the  open  field,  the  sun  and 
moon  his  parsons. 

With  her  characteristic  nimbleness  of  mind,  the 
beautiful  Betty  Blundell  had  filled  in  the  spaces 
between  the  lines  of  information  she  had  drawn 
from  Mrs.  Weeks.  John  Ashley  was  new.  The 
study  of  a  new  thing,  when  it  was  male,  was 
always  interesting  to  her.  The  study  of  John 
Ashley  would  keep  boredom,  the  worst  of  all  evil 
spirits,  at  arm's  length.  So  little  Mrs.  Blundell, 
who  hated  walking,  took  the  turning  to  the  right. 


CHAPTER  VI 

She  followed  the  corn-lined  road  until,  within  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  from  the  village,  it  ran  up  a 
hill.  Here  she  branched  off  the  road  into  a  field, 
tree-topped,  where  there  was  a  gap. 

Looking  down  upon  a  clump  of  irregular  red 
roofs  grouped,  chicken  -  wise,  under  the  wing  of 
their  mother  church,  she  stopped,  tired,  expectant, 
amused  and  resourceful. 

The  sun  was  setting.  There  was  a  sudden  hush 
in  the  world.  A  solitary  crow,  flying  quickly,  left 
a  harsh  jar  in  the  air.  The  silver  tongue  of  the 
ancient  church,  wailing  the  death  of  one  hour, 
singing  the  birth  of  another,  instantly  corrected  it 

That  was  all.     The  whole   sky  seemed    to   have 

been  slashed  at  with  a  sharp  knife.     From   under 

the  surface  of  it  there  welled  up  streaks  of  blood 

which  trickled   about  the   cuts,  staining  everything 

a    deep    crimson.      Insidiously,   the    trees    became 

tinted  in  it,  the   weeds    and  bracken    and    shaking 

grass,   the   thin    white   line   of    road,    the    corn    on 

88 


Beam's  Clag  89 

each  side.  The  windows  of  the  church  and  of  the 
cottages  in  the  village  suddenly  flared  as  though 
the  rooms  they  lighted  were  on  fire. 

Little  Mrs.  Blundell  saw  none  of  this.  Shading 
her  eyes  with  a  delicate  little  hand,  she  watched 
the  road  below  steadily,  eagerly,  impatiently. 

A  speck  on  the  white  appeared,  turned  into  two, 
grew  into  a  tired  horse  and  weary  man,  and  left 
the  road  for  a  meadow  on  the  left.     Then  nothing. 

Another  speck  !  Little  Mrs.  Blundell  bent 
forward  as  though  to  give  her  eyes  less  distance 
to  peer  through.  The  silver  bell  marked  off  another 
quarter.  A  quick  smile  came  suddenly  to  Betty's 
face.  She  could  now  recognise  the  height,  the 
breadth,  the  slow,  swinging  stride  of  the  man 
placed  upon  earth  to  amuse  her  till  the  novelty 
of  him  wore  off,  or  until  it  became  necessary  to 
drop  him  for  reasons  of  a  diplomatic  nature. 

She  watched  him  slowly  grow  larger,  and 
suddenly  stop.  Leaning  on  a  stile  which  led 
to  a  footpath  from  the  road  up  the  hill  on  which 
she  stood,  and  back  again,  he  seemed  to  be 
watching  something  intently.  Mrs.  Blundell  saw 
nothing  to  look  at — no  animal,  no  person.  Surely 
he  couldn't  be  looking  at  the  sunset,  a  man  who 
had  seen   nothing  but  sunsets   since  he  was  born? 


90  at)am*s  Cla^ 

What  a  strange  effect  the  country  seemed  to  have 
upon  people.  Bother  sunsets  !  Why  didn't  he 
come  ?  The  dew  would  fall  presently,  she  supposed. 
It  generally  did  in  those  kind  of  places,  and  her 
muslin  would  be  ruined. 

Why  on  earth  was  he  taking  off  his  cap?  Was 
there  some  woman  in  the  field  whom  she  couldn't 
see  ?  Apparently  not.  He  still  had  his  chin  tilted 
upwards.  Sentimental,  forsooth,  for  all  his  inches. 
Artistic,  too,  she  supposed.  So  much  the  better. 
He  would  appreciate  the  dip  of  her  hat,  the 
exquisite  outline  of  her  face,  the  great  soul-depth 
of  her  deep  blue  eyes.  She  gathered  that  he  had 
never  seen  any  other  women  than  women  with 
aprons  round  their  arms,  with  rolh"ng  r's. 

How  should  she  break  herself  upon  him.  Which 
way  would  be  most  effective? 

Everything  depended,  she  argued,  as  to  which 
way  he  came  up  the  hill,  whether  by  the  road  or 
the  footpath.  She  hoped  the  walk  had  not  dis- 
organised the  tiny  curls  upon  her  forehead.  With 
a  wet  finger  she  smoothed  her  eye-brows,  lightly 
and  expertly  sent  home  the  hair-pins  which  had 
worked  out  of  their  places.  She  bent  down  and 
shook  the  dust  from  the  edge  of  her  frock. 

When    she    looked    down    the    hill  again,   Ashley 


had  moved.  He  was  on  the  footpath  between  the 
waving  grasses.  His  hands  were  behind  his  back, 
and  his  h'ps  were  moving.  Very  likely,  Mrs. 
Blundell  supposed,  with  a  smile,  repeating  some- 
thing out  of  those  wretched  books  upon  which 
he  wasted  so  much  money. 

The  problem  was  how  to  be  most  effective. 
Should  she  sit  down  and  wait  till  he  appeared  on 
the  side  of  the  hill,  and  then  ask  him  the  way  to 
the  post-office  ?  Or  should  she  stand  on  the  tip- 
top of  the  hill,  blocking  the  path  he  was  following, 
outlined  against  the  sky,  flecked  with  the  now  paling 
red? 

On  came  the  man  of  Nature,  head  up,  arms  behind, 
long,  slow,  swinging  stride. 

Against  the  sky,  directly  in  his  way,  with  wide- 
open,  simple  eyes,  waited  the  little  woman  of  the 
world    like  a  white,  risen  moon. 


CHAPTER  VII 

".   .   .    No   words    of    mine,    my    dear    Milly,   can 

convey  the  very  least  idea  of  the  intense  enjoyment 

that   moment   gave   me.     Even   cow — I  have  been 

back    three    hours — I    can   feel    in    my    back    that 

pleasant  thrill  which  an  exquisite  bar  of  music  or 

a  big  moment  in  a  well-written  play  always  causes. 

Do  you  know  ?     A  sort  of  tingling — a  fillip  to  that 

part   of    one   which   is   genuinely   sympathetic   and 

responsive. 

"  I  didn't  look  at  him  for  some  minutes — seconds, 

I  suppose — in   cold,  accurate  English.     Apparently 

my  eyes  were  fixed   on  the  sky  with  that  hungry, 

dreamy,  girlish  look,  which  it  took  me  so  long  to 

acquire,   and  which  has  come  in   most  usefully  on 

many    former   occasions.     Nevertheless,   I    saw  him 

stop   with   a   great   gasp,  and  stand   with  his  huge 

arms   hanging   loosely  at   his  sides,  looking  at  me 

as   though    I    were   a   will-o'-the-wisp,    a    vapour,   a 

live    poem.     I    wore    that    muslin     I    got    for    the 

Veyseys'   garden-party,  transparent   at   the  neck  — 

92 


HDam's  Cla^  93 

they  call  it  neck — and  arms,  and  the  poppy  hat 
everybody  raved  about  so  much  and  copied — the 
beasts.  All  Nature  seemed  to  be  helping  me  too. 
The  faint  red  glow,  the  green  at  my  feet,  the  clear 
gold  behind  me.  I  felt  like  one  of  those  angels 
painted  on  tinted  tessellated  stuff  over  the  little 
altar  in  one  of  those  funny  side-chapels  in  what's 
the  name  of  the  church  in  Rome  ?  I  believe  that 
if  I  could  have  kept  it  up,  we  should  still  be  there. 
But  I  wanted  the  extra  satisfaction  of  seeing  what 
he  would  do  when  I  looked  into  his  eyes.  So — oh, 
my  dear,  how  thankful  I  am  that  Providence  decided 
I  should  be  a  girl — I  gave  myself  a  little  shake,  as 
though  I  had  suddenly  fallen  to  earth,  and  with 
one  of  my  best  wide-eyed  looks  of  intense,  fearless 
innocence,  suddenly  met  his  gaze." 

Little  Mrs.  Blundell  put  down  her  pen,  knocked 
the  ash  off  her  cigarette,  drew  the  soft  folds  of  her 
night-dress  more  closely  round  her,  and  threw  back 
her  head  with  a  quiet,  silvery  peal  of  laughter. 

"  T  really  thought  he  would  have  fallen  down," 
she  wrote,  after  a  moment,  bending  her  dimpling 
face  over  the  table  again.     "  In  all  my  life,  in  the 


94  H^am's  Cla^ 

whole  course  of  my  experience,  I  never  felt  so 
thoroughly  warmed  and  contented  with  myself. 
It  was  like,  I  take  it,  a  sudden,  prolonged  burst  of 
applause  from  a  packed  theatre,  or  a  eulogistic 
criticism  in  the  pages  of  some  really  important 
paper.  I  am  one  of  those  women,  thank  Heaven ! 
— or  whatever  it  is  one  ought  to  thank  in  such  a 
case — who  has  the  power  of  tempting  men.  Well, 
the  use  of  that  power  has  always  been  my  pleasure 
and  delight,  I  love  to  watch  the  gradual  trans- 
formation which  takes  place,  to  see  your  calm, 
assured,  unruffled  man  become  uncomfortable,  to 
watch  the  blood  rush  to  his  brain,  to  see  his  hands 
twitch,  and  the  veins  beat  and  flutter  on  his  temples, 
the  queer  look  come  into  his  eyes — especially  when 
there  is  some  quite  solid  piece  of  furniture  between 
us.  I  suppose  there  is  something  of  the  mermaid 
about  me,  because,  having  tempted  to  the  top  of 
my  bent,  I  then  splash  cold  water  over  the  man 
wuth  my  tail,  and  slip  away  into  the  sea.  I  have 
often  before  been  surprised  at  the  effect  I  have 
created,  but  never  till  to-night  have  I  felt  quite  so 
— what  shall  I  say — gratified.  I  think  that's  the 
word  I  mean.  Really,  never.  I  wish  you  could 
have  seen  my  wild  man  of  the  woods.  His  mouth 
fell  open,  his  eyes  seemed  to  start  out  of  his  head, 


a&am's  Clas  95 

and  his  heart  jumped  and  beat,  and  panted — I 
could  see  it  in  his  neck. 

"  For  just  a  second  I  confess  I  was  scared.  He  is 
so  big,  so  strong,  so — so  untutored,  so  much  a  child 
of  Nature,  that  for  a  moment  I  thought  he  might 
catch  hold  of  me  and — well,  I  took  my  eyes  away, 
and  went  quickly  past  him  down  the  hill. 

"  I  was  afraid  to  turn  at  first  to  see  what  he  was 
doing,  because,  of  course,  I  thought  he  would  be 
looking  after  me.  They  usually  do,  you  know. 
But  finally,  as  I  didn't  wish  to  lose  any  of  the 
enjoyment  of  the  thing,  I  stooped  down,  pretending 
to  pick  some  grass,  and  looked  back  under  my  arm. 
My  dear,  he  hadn't  moved  !  There  he  was,  just  as 
I  had  left  him,  with  his  back  to  me,  his  arms  still 
hanging  at  his  sides,  his  shoulders  heaving. 

"  If  anyone  had  given  me  a  rope  of  pearls,  I  don't 
believe  I  could  have  been  more  pleased.  You  know, 
after  one  has  been  at  it  for  three  whole,  well-filled 
years,  and  begun  to  think  that  perhaps  some  of  one's 
power  has  gone,  it  really  is  delightful  to  find,  so  quite 
too  convincingly,  that  the  power  is  there  in  all  its 
abundance.     Don't  you  think  so  ? 

"  As  I  looked,  he  moved,  pulled  himself  together, 
and  staggering  like  a  man  who  wakes  from  a  sleeping- 
draught,  went  away — never  once  looking   back.     I 


96  H&am's  Clag 

wonder  if  he  still  thinks  I  came  from  the  sky  ?  I 
say  sky,  because  it  sounds  better  than  the  other 
word  I  was  thinking  of.  I  remember  being  awfully 
pleased  once  because  Reggie  Rawnsley — dear  old 
Reggie  ! — i^uddenly  shook  me  quite  violently  and 
told  me  I  was  a  she -devil.  Funny  thing  to  be 
pleased  about,  wasn't  it  ?  " 


CHAPTER  VIII 

Putting  the  letter  into  its  envelope,  little  Mrs. 
Blundell  took  up  a  hand-glass,  and  holding  it  in 
both  her  hands,  with  her  elbows  resting  on  the  table, 
looked  into  it  earnestly.  There  were  four  candles 
behind  it,  and  although  the  window  was  wide  open, 
their  wicks  burnt  straight  and  unwaveringly. 

The  night  was  hot  and  breathless.  No  sound 
broke  its  deep  stillness.  The  moon  in  her  first 
quarter  hung  sharp  against  a  sky  clotted  with 
stars.  Beyond  the  narrow  white  road  and  the 
wide  stretch  of  sicepir.g  corn,  a  line  of  poplars 
stood,  wir.h  every  branch  cut  clear  against  the  pale 
blue.  The  scent  of  honeysuckle  and  syringa  crept 
into  the  room. 

Among  the  cheap  and  hideous  china  figures  which 

stood  everywhere — upon  the  frail  sideboard,  upon  the 

slip    of   mantel-board,    upon    the   bamboo   brackets 

placed  primly  in  the  angles  of  the  v/all,  among  the 

hard-seated  chairs  over  Vv'hose  b::cks  hung  stiff,  white 

lace  antimacas.-ars  tied  with  vivid    pink  ribbon,  the 

97  « 


98  BDam'3  Cla^ 

oleographs  of  podgy  angels,  out-of-proportion  race- 
horses, children  with  dogs,  and  the  while-you-vvait 
photographs  of  engaged  couples,  fathers  and  mothers, 
widows  and  their  sons — the  exquisitely  dainty  woman 
in  her  belaced  night-dress  and  Indian  slippers,  looked 
like  a  diamond  set  in  brass. 

She  broke  into  a  sudden  laugh  and  commenced, 
with  the  air  of  one  who  conscientiously  goes  through 
a  form  of  daily  exercise,  to  practise  a  series  of  facial 
expressions.  She  pursed  up  her  mouth,  opened  her 
eyes  wide,  and  raised  her  eyebrows. 

"  How  can  you  ?  "  she  said  aloud.  Then  she  let 
her  mouth  become  tremulous  and  her  eyes  tender. 
"  Must  you  really  go  ?  "  she  said. 

And  then,  with  the  quickness  of  lightning,  she 
closed  her  lips  into  a  short,  straight  line,  let  her 
eyebrows  meet  in  the  middle,  and  half  closed  her 
eyes. 

"Pray  don't  run  away  with  the  notion  that  I  want 
you  to  stay,"  she  said  coldly. 

She  tried  this  expression  several  times,  with  slight 
alterations,  additions,  and  emendations,  and  then 
changed  it  to  one  of  inteiise  sym.pathy  and  interest 
and  rapt  attention. 

"  Tell  me  about  yourself,"  she  s'iid. 

Apparently  satisfied  with  that,  sl;e  threw  a  gleam 


HDam's  Cla^  99 

of  challenge  into  her  eyes,  held  back  her  head,  with 
her  lips  slightly  apart,  and  said  : 

"  No,  I  never  allow  any  man  to  kiss  me — except 
my  husband." 

Slow,  heavy  steps  passed  along  the  hard  road. 

With  the  quickness  of  a  minnow,  and  with  all  its 
clastic  grace,  she  darted  to  the  window  and  leant  out. 

It  was  Ashley,  passing  along  with  his  arms  behind 
him,  eyes  to  the  ground. 

Betty  watched  him  until  he  became  merged  into 
the  shadows,  and  the  echo  of  his  steps  had  died 
away. 

Then  she  drew  in  her  head,  with  laughing,  eager 
eyes  gathered  up  her  writing  -  case,  and  crossed  to 
her  bedroom.  On  the  way  she  stopped  involuntarily 
before  a  calendar. 

"  Only  ten  days,"  she  cried.  "  Only  ten  days,  and 
he  is  so  .  .  .  so  unexplored  !  But  he  no  longer 
looks  at  the  sky,   I  notice." 

She  chuckled  softly  as  she  passed  into  her 
bcdioom. 


CHAPTER  IX 

It   was   the   following  evening   upon   which   Betty 
wrote  again : 

"I  slept  badly.  I  don't  think  I  ever  remember  to 
have  slept  badly  before.  It  was  a  new  experience, 
and  so  I  suppose  I  ought  not  to  grumble.  On  the 
contrary,  as  my  whole  life  is  devoted  to  the  search 
of  things  new,  I  ought  to  be  glad.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  I  grumbled  horribly  until  I  got  out  of  bed  and 
looked  in  the  glass.  I  dreamt  the  most  uncomfortable 
thing.  I  dreamt  that  the  farmer  had  choked  me,  and 
that  he  had  laid  me  down  on  the  crest  of  a  hill — our 
hill — and  covered  me  with  withered  leaves.  My 
husband  ran  up  the  hill,  and  stood  looking  at  him, 
with  the  mo>.t  peculiar  expression  in  his  eyes. 
Although  I  was  dead  I  saw  and  heard  everything. 
From  \vi\at  I  remember  of  it  now — a  good  deal  has 
happened  since  this  mor.ning— I  think  John  Ashley 
was  out  of  his  mind.  He  sat  by  me,  smiling 
foolishly.       Al!   the   strong    lines    round    his    mouth 


Beam's  Clag  loi 

seemed  to  have  been  loosened.  He  looked  like  a 
bronze  statue  over  which  somebody  had  put  a  thin 
layer  of  putty,  as  a  practical  joke.  I  remember 
being  a  little  shocked  at  his  sudden  alteration.  But 
I  could  have  laughed  at  the  careful  way  in  which  he 
put  the  leaves  all  over  me.  He  didn't  shovel  them 
over  me.  He  placed  them  gently,  one  by  one,  as 
though  he  were  dressing  a  dinner-table.  They  really 
looked  rather  becoming  on  my  white  dress.  If  Evelyn 
is  in  funds  when  he  comes  back — only  nine  days 
now  ! — I  shall  get  Friola  to  build  me  a  white  evening 
frock  covered  with  copper-coloured  leaves.  I  am 
sure  it  would  be  rather  effective,  with  bronze  shoes, 
and  a  wreath  of  the  same  leaves  in  my  hair.  But 
let  me  tell  you  how  it  seemed  to  me  that  Evelyn 
looked,  before  I  forget.  He  looked  like  a  man  in 
blind-man's  buff,  when  the  handkerchief  is  taken  off 
his  eyes,  and  he  finds  himself  facing  people  he 
thought  were  all  behind  him.  He  looked  from 
Ashley  to  me,  and  from  me  to  Ashley,  as  though  he 
didn't  really  believe  that  we  were  there.  You  know 
Evelyn,  don't  you  ?  You  know  that  he  is  one  of  those 
short-necked  men,  who  gets  very  red  under  great 
emotion,  whose  face  swells,  and  who  swears  foully. 
All  the  veneer  of  civilisation  cracks  like  cheap 
stucco  on  an  old  I)uilding,  and  underneath  you  see 


I02  HOaiiVs  ciai? 

— bricks  !  I  expected  to  see  him  flin[j  himself  like 
an  ape  upon  Ashley,  and  tear  him  limb  from  limb. 
He  did  swell  and  get  red,  and  clench  his  fists,  and 
cry  out  inarticulate  blasphemy.  But  suddenly 
catching  Ashley's  eye,  and  finding  in  it  no  fear,  no 
annoyance  at  being  caught,  he  pulled  himself  up, 
and  stooped  over  me. 

" '  So  you're  one  of  that  sort,  are  you  ? '  I  heard 
him  say,  with  disgust  in  his  voice.  '  And  he's  choked 
you,  has  he,  on  finding  it  out  ?  It  saves  me  the 
trouble  and  serves  you  right ! ' 

"  I  think  I  was  more  surprised  than  hurt.  Evelyn 
is  such  an  extremely  well-bred  person.  But  as  he 
turned  away  to  go  down  the  hill,  lurching  like  a 
man  who  wakes  after  a  sleeping-draught,  I  did  all 
I  could  to  cry  out  to  him  to  come  back  and  kill 
Ashley  horribly — and  couldn't.  My  tongue  felt  like 
a  huge  garden  roller.  I  strained  and  tugged  and 
pushed,  and  couldn't  move  it.  I  suppose  the  effort 
woke  me. 

"I  knew  the  whole  thing  was  a  dream,  of  course; 
but  it  seemed  so  real,  so  actual,  that  really  for  a 
moment  or  two,  I  was  afraid  to  open  my  eyes  in 
case  I  should  see  Ashley's  inane  face,  and  hear 
Evelyn  —  dear,  fond,  old  bull  -  necked  Evelyn  — • 
thudding  down  the  hill.     Was  it  the  radishes?     Or 


was  it  the  after-efifcct  of  one  of  those  foolish  novels 
I  had  been  reading  before  going  to  sleep  ? 

"  But  it  doesn't  matter.  The  point  is,  I  had  a  new 
sensation.  I  dreamt  for  the  first  time  in  my  life. 
Poor  mother  !  The  fact  that  I  always  slept  well 
was  one  of  her  standing  grievances.  She  used  to 
get  out  of  her  glasses  —  generally  tearing  away 
pieces  of  hair-net — lay  them  down  on  her  Bible — 
I  am  talking  of  the  times  when  she  was  ill — and 
say,  '  I  can't  get  over  it.  You  were  the  only  one 
actually  to  see  your  poor  father  in  the  agonies  of 
death,  and  yet  you  could  come  home  from  the 
hospital,  have  a  good  supper,  go  to  bed  and  sleep 
like  a  baby.'  She  dreamt  for  weeks,  poor  old  thing ! 
No  wonder  she  envied  me ! 

"But  the  gift  of  being  able  to  sleep  after  any 
worry  or  trouble  is  peculiarly  mine.  Why,  even 
after  that  drive  with  Valentine  Worthing — the  very 
thought  of  which  makes  cold  water  run  up  and 
down  my  spine — I  slept  like  a  healthy  school-girl 
after  a  tennis  tournament.     Excellent,  isn't  it  ? 

"  I  ate  three  new-laid  eggs  this  morning  !  They 
were  like  cream.  I  believe  they  were  born  on 
purpose  for  me.  I  must  say  that  the  whole  place 
is  most  kind  and  obliging.  It  was  very  nice  and 
fresh    in   the    little  sitting-room.     The  window  was 


I04  Hbam's  Clai^ 

wide  open,  and  those  coMinon  crowding  white  roses, 
which  always  remind  me  of  servant  girls  in  the 
fields  on  Sunday  evenings,  poked  their  heads  in 
at  me.  They  had  put  a  great  bunch  of  very  red 
poppies  into  a  pink  glass  vase,  chipped  at  the 
bottom,  on  the  table  by  the  butter.  They  were 
mixed  up  with  long,  tall  pieces  of  barley,  and  they 
were  not  unlike  shiny-cheeked  girls,  blushing  up  into 
the  faces  of  loutish  soldiers.  I  suppose  I  felt 
poetical !  And  the  sweet  -  peas  were  really  quite 
sweet.  I  wished  all  the  time  that  John  Ashley 
could  come  in  and  see  me.  I  must  have  looked 
so  simple  and  harmless  and  wide-eyed.  I  v.-ore  that 
perfectly  heavenly  breakfast-gown  that  I  took  from 
Edith  Dinting  to  settle  her  Bridge  debts.  Do  you 
remember  it?  Hand-paintod  chiffon,  and  miles  of 
lace — real  lace,  cut  low  at  the  throat,  and  falling 
away  at  the  elbows.  I  know  it  rather  tends  to 
convey  the  impression  that  one  is — what  is  that 
silly  word  that  people  use  under  the  circumstances — 
interesting,  isn't  it  .'*  which,  to  me,  takes  a  little  of 
the  gilt  off  the  gingerbread.  But  after  all,  from  what 
I  hear  and  judge  of  Asliley,  lie's  not  so  highly 
civilised  as  to  possess  a  smart  mind.  He  would 
only  have  taken  in  the  pictisre  as  a  wliole.  And 
as  you  know,  my  arms  are  very  beautiful.  I'm  so 
glad  I  had  t'ne  pluc!:  to  be  vaccir.ated  on  the  thigh 


Beam's  Cla^  105 

"  I  couldn't  help  thinking  as  I  put  on  my  morning 
frock,  what  small  things  are  capable  of  changing 
one's  entire  mental  attitude.  Yesterday  afternoon  I 
loathed  this  place,  with  its  quiet,  its  scents,  its 
rural  noises.  I  hated  to  feel  off  the  map,  and 
looked  forward  to  the  ten  days  hero  with  that 
feeling  of  dread  which,  I  imagine,  a  criminal  feels 
at  the  beginning  of  a  term  of  ten  years. 

"Think  of  me  this  morning.  Think  of  me  last 
night.  Already  I  eye  the  calendar  suspiciously  to 
see  that  it  doesn't  cheat  me  out  of  a  day.  Oh, 
Milly,  you  don't  know  what  it  is  to  me  to 
deliberately  lay  my  little  plans  to  fascinate  a  man 
— such  a  man ! — or  what  exquisite  pleasure  it  gives 
me  to  note  the  gradual  effect  they  have  upon  him  ! 
I  suppose  a  spider  is  the  only  animal  which  gets 
the  same  kind  of  satisfaction.  Not  that  I  wish  to 
compare  myself  with  an  animal,  or  rather  an  insect, 
although,  my  dear,  I  am  not  much  different  from 
most  beautiful  women,  and  it's  a  futile  argument 
to  say  that  this  kind  of  game — it  is  a  kind  of  game 
— i:,n't  animalish.  Why,  Eve  did  it !  However,  I 
don't  care  one  way  or  the  other.  It's  a  free 
country,  and  one  can  take  one's  pleasures  hov/ 
one  likes. 

"  I  must  know  men  pretty  well,  I  think.  I  walked 
straiglit  to   the  top   of  the  hill   wl\erc    I    met   John 


io6  BDaiu's  ciag 

Ashley  the  other  evcninfT.  I  knew  that  either  he 
would  be  already  there,  or  that  he  would  be  there 
shortly.  I  found  him  already  there !  He  was  lying 
on  his  back  with  his  head  on  his  hands,  asleep.  He 
looked  like  Gulliver,  at  full  stretch.  I  never  sav. 
such  a  really  superb  person.  It  made  me  feel  about 
four  inches  long  !  I  wondered,  impishly,  what  he 
would  say  if  I  started  running  over  him  like  a 
Liliputian,  and  I  longed  to  tack  him  down  to  the 
earth  so  that  he  couldn't  move,  and  then  tickle  him 
with  a  long  piece  of  grass  ! 

"  He's  wonderfully  good-looking.  His  eyebrows 
are  red,  and  his  moustache— a  large,  soft-looking 
thing — is  almost  flaxen.  It  looks  lighter  than  it 
really  is  because  his  skin  is  deeply  tanned.  His 
nose  is  too  large,  perhaps,  but  it  is  a  good  one,  and 
shows  breeding  by  its  bridge.  And  I  don't  think 
I  ever  saw  such  a  square,  determined  jav/.  He  was 
breathing  as  men  breathe  when  they  are  in  their 
second  sleep — soundlessly.  Indeed,  I  had  to  bend 
over  him  and  listen,  and  look  closely  at  his  chest 
to  make  sure  that  it  was  only  sleep.  It  might  have 
been  death,  you  know,  and  then  my  tiny  ten  days 
would  have  become  ten  weary  months. 

"  I  watched  him  for  a  long  time,  wondering  how 
the  effects  of  me  would  work  upon  him.     He  :'s  such 


BDanrs  ciap  107 

virgin  soil.  I  have  never  met  his  kind  before. 
Evelyn,  poor,  dear  old  Evelyn,  was  so  easy  to 
manage.  One's  few  quite  elementary  tricks  were 
sufficient.  When  I  made  up  my  mind  that  I 
couldn't  stand  home — its  dull,  horrid  routine,  con- 
stant economy,  everlasting  living  with  the  gas  turned 
down — and  that  I  would  become  J.Irs.  Blundell  as  a 
stepping-stone  to  London,  I  just  let  my  knee  rest 
against  his  as  I  drove  to  a  dance  at  the  Hall,  sitting 
opposite  to  him  in  his  uncle's  hideously  old-fashioned 
carriage,  and  afterwards,  when  we  were  sitting  out  in 
the  summer-house,  an  imaginary  spider  had  to  be 
shaken  out  of  my  skirt,  and  my  stockings  were  very 
pretty.  lie  caught  his  breath  when  I  decided  the 
spider  must  have  gone,  and  I  managed,  before  I  sat 
down,  to  undo  the  button  of  my  shoe.  When  he 
rose  from  doing  it  up,  there  was  a  glitter  in  his  blue 
eyes,  and  his  hands  trembled.  I  took  care  also  that 
three  other  people  should  get  into  the  old  carriage 
with  us  going  home,  so  that  it  became  necessary  for 
us  to  be  very  close  together  for  some  time ;  and 
several  times,  when  we  passed  over  a  more  than 
usually  rutty  part  of  the  road,  I  held  his  hand  very 
tight,  without  my  glove,  in  a  nervous,  helpless  way. 
He  proposed  to  me  while  we  waited  on  the  steps  for 
old  Jane  to  open  the  door.     Flis  first  kiss  told  me 


io8  HDam'5  Cla^ 

how  effective  these  just  preliminary  tricks  had  been. 
You  must  remember  that  Evelyn  is  one  of  those 
kind  of  men — they  form  the  vast  majority — who  is 
very  easily  moved.  For  instance,  a  very  few  glasses 
of  wine  go  to  his  head.  He  quite  bellows  at  all  the 
obviously  bcllowy  parts  of  a  play.  Ycu  see,  he 
ratiier  runs  to  fat. 

"  With  Reggie  it  vv-as  quite  different.  He  is  slight 
and  tall  and  dark,  and  such  things  would  have  merely 
tended  to  disgust.  With  him  it  was  dangerous  to 
take  the  initiative.  He  liked  the  will-o'-the-wisp 
method — the  elusive,  the  invitation  in  the  eye,  the 
quickly  -  erected  fence.  With  him  the  impossible 
was  the  only  thing  to  be  desired.  One  had  to  play 
one's  subtle  tricks  in  his  case,  one's  second-grade 
tricks.  And  with  Valentine  Worthing — who  is  the 
third  type  of  man — there  are  only  three — who  is  an 
artist  at  one  moment,  a  Goth  at  the  next,  a  mixture 
of  the  most  refined  and  the  coarsest  sensualism, 
epicure  and  animal  —  one  had  to  combine  tricks 
belonging  to  the  first  and  the  second  grades, 
according  to  his  mood.  But  one  had  to  exaggerate 
both.  It  was  a  good  deal  more  trouble,  and  I  can't 
tell  you  how  much  more  dangerous  to  oneself,  and 
consequently,  how  infinitely  more  enjoyable  and 
worth   one's  while.      Danger   is  the   very   backbone 


seam's  Clai?  109 

of  the  game — a  game  which  is,  of  course,   utterly 
spoiled  when  a  goal  is  scored. 

"  But  what  am  I  to  do  with  this  huge,  untutored 
instrument  ?  What  chords,  what  runs,  what  discords 
am  I  to  strike  on  his  untouched  keys?  He  is  sensual, 
of  course — all  men  are,  especially  the  misogynist. 
He  must  have  caught  something  of  the  sensualism 
of  Nature,  who  is  the  lightest  female  of  us  all.  Any 
man  can  be  celibate  who  has  never  had  the  oppor- 
tunity of  being  anything  else.  Opportunity  proves 
the  metal.  I  firmly  believe  that  there  would  eventu- 
ally be  no  such  thing  as  animalism  in  men  and 
women  if  we  were  taught  to  concentrate  our  whole 
power  of  creation  upon  things  we  had  a  taste  for. 
The  whole  thing  is  merely  an  innate  desire  to  create, 
and  if  we  all  did  things — wrote,  painted,  sculr)ed, 
carved  wood,  bound  books,  made  clothes  ;  it  doesn't 
matter — our  animialism  would  be  put  into  the  work 
we  performed,  and  wc  should  all  become  celibate. 
Nature  knows  that  well  enough,  though,  and  she  has 
no  desire  to  be  left  alone  in  the  world  as  she  found 
herself  in  the  days  before  Adam  and  Eve  trod  upon 
her  bosom.  Tiiat's  why,  I  suppose,  animalism  is 
called  Nature  by  people  who  dislike  to  be  called  or 
lO  think  themselves  animals.  Why  sh<juldn't  it.? 
The   deception    has    been    allowed    by   the    Church. 


no  Beam's  Clas 

Marry,  and  animalism  is  blessed.  Don't  marry, 
and  it  is  horribly  immoral.  The  Church  is  the 
police  force.     It  regulates  the  traffic. 

"  I  think  I  must  have  stood  by  my  boredom- 
dispellcr  for  half  an  hour  before  I  made  up  my 
mind  that  I  should  have  to  treat  him  as  I  treated 
Valentine  Worthing.  I  came  to  the  conclusion 
that  there  would  be  very  little  difference  between 
these  two  men.  They  are  both  artists,  both  Goths, 
both  epicures,  both  animals.  It  only  happens  that 
one  has  grown  almost  tired  of  creating,  and  the 
other  hasn't  yet  begun  to  create.  Therefore  it 
means  that  I  must  combine  the  tricks  of  the  first 
and  second  grades  just  as  lightly  with  Ashley  as  I  ex- 
aggerated them  with  Worthing.  And  even,  practised 
lightly,  I  shall,  thank  goodness,  be  playing  with  fire. 
But  I  don't  intend  to  get  burnt !  A  burnt  child 
dreads  the  fire.     I  am  Evelyn  Blundell's  wife ! 

"  Finally  he  began  to  show  signs  of  waking — I 
think  he  must  have  been  sitting  all  night  where  he 
first  saw  me — and  I  walked  away  keeping  my  back 
to  him.  I  v/ould  have  bet  any  money  on  his  speaking 
to  me,  and  I  should  have  lost.  When  I  looked  round 
he  had  gone.  I  could  see  him  running  hard  down  the 
hill  to  his  farm.  He  was  not  running  away  from  me, 
though.     He  was  running  away  from  himself" 


CHAPTER  X 

Betty  watched  the  farmer  till  he  was  out  of  sight, 
with  a  smile  in  which  there  was  intense  pleasure 
coupled  with  intense  annoyance.  She  had  meant 
to  speak  to  him  that  morning,  or  get  him  to  speak 
to  her.  So,  while  she  thoroughly  appreciated  his 
retreat — it  was,  in  such  a  man,  an  immense  compli- 
ment, in  that  it  proved  that  he  couldn't  trust  himself 
in  her  neighbourhood — it  meant  that  perhaps  another 
day,  or  at  any  rate,  several  hours,  would  have  to  be 
killed  alone,  with  no  man  to  practise  on. 

She  remembered  that  the  letters  arrived  in  the 
village  at  midday,  and  so  she  slowly  retraced  her 
steps.  She  made  up  her  mind  that  she  would  sleep  the 
afternoon  away,  and  return  to  her  spot  in  the  evening. 
She  was  one  of  those  women  who  always  slept  her 
afternoon  away  however  busy  she  might  be.  She  con- 
sidered that  it  kept  away  wrinkles,  and  with  her,  as 
with  most  women,  wrinkles  are  terrible  thinj/s.  She, 
like  most  women,  had  a  great  dread  of  looking  her 
age,  and  would  do  without  nevs^  dresses  even,  in  order 


112  HDam's  Cla^ 

to  have  face  massage,  or  any  other  kind  of  treatment 
that  would  help  to  keep  the  youth  in  her  face,  and 
her  figure — for  naturally,  her  figure  too  came  into  the 
question  of  looking  young.  There  is,  perhaps,  next 
to  wrinkles  and  loose  flesh,  nothing  a  woman  dreads 
more  than  spreading  hips.  And  Betty,  like  most 
women,  would  undergo  any  discomfort,  wear  any  dis- 
tressing appliance  through  the  night,  if  only  she 
thought  it  would  control  fat,  and  put  the  clock  back. 
She,  like  most  women,  spent  many  anxious  moments 
in  front  of  her  full-length  glass  putting  herself  through 
a  daily  inspection,  wondering,  with  a  catch  in  her 
breath,  whether  this  or  that  portion  of  her  wasn't 
slightly  larger,  or  slightly  more  lined  to-day  than 
yesterday.  To  this  end  she  regulated  her  diet  more 
carefully  than  any  priest. 

She  found  on  the  table  of  her  little  sitting-room 
a  large  packet  from  her  friend,  in  which  were 
enclosed  all  the  letters  which  had  been  deliv-ered 
at  her  flat  since  her  absence.  She  noticed,  with  a 
smile,  that  the  paclret  was  addressed  to  Miss 
Blundell,  and  she  thanked  Heaven  that  Milly  was 
a  woman  of  imagination.  She  herself  had  meant 
to  tell  her  landlady  that  she  was  unmarried.  She 
knew  intuitively  that  Ashley  was  one  of  those 
queer,   old  -  fashioned    persons   who   wouldn't   allow 


H&ain'5  Cla^  113 

himself,  from  a  sense  of  mistaken  honour,  to  flirt 
with  another  man's  wife,  and  this  substitution  on 
the  part  of  Milly  would  save  the  trouble  of  telling 
a  lie.  Not  that  Betty  objected,  any  more  than  any 
other  woman,  to  tell  a  lie.  But  she  preferred  other 
people  to  do  it  for  her,  in  the  same  way  that  she 
preferred  other  people  to  do  her  shopping  and 
mend  her  clothes.  The  lie  once  told,  she,  like 
other  women,  found  it  quite  easy  to  live  up  to. 
Indeed,  deception  was  the  breath  of  her  nostrils. 
And  yet  she  was  in  no  sense  a  liar.  She  told  the 
truth  when  it  didn't  matter,  quite  readily  at  all 
times.  But  she  found  life  a  little  dull  unless  there 
was  always  something  to  hide  from  somebody. 
Something  quite  trivial,  perhaps  —  a  letter,  the 
photograph  of  a  man  she  knew  her  husband,  her 
father,  her  brother  objected  to,  little  meetings  with 
the  same  man,  and  others — but  still  something.  It 
gave  a  fillip  to  her  day  which  she  found  it  quite 
impossible  to  do  without.  It  supplied  the  place  of 
constant  nipping.  There  might  be  nothing  in  the 
letter  her  husband  could  possibly  find  to  cavil  at, 
except  the  usual  terms  of  endearment  which  men  put 
in  their  letters  to  most  women  to  whom  they  write, 
just  to  pan  it  out,  or  because  it  has  become  a  habit 
vvith  them,  such   as  "all  love,"  "with   all   my  love," 


114  Beam's  Cla^ 

"girl  dear,"  and  other  utterly  insincere  and  stereo- 
t3'ped  and  meaningless  things.  But  she  chose  to 
hide  it  in  the  same  way  as  a  dog  hides  a  bone. 
It  gave  her  a  tinge  of  pleasure  to  go  and  dig  it  up 
when  she  thought  that  no  one  was  looking. 

No  wise  man  objects  to  these  little  things  in  his 
womcnkind.  He  knows  very  well  how  great  a 
part  the  utterly  small  things  play  in  their  lives. 
He  knows  very  well,  however  much  he  may  love 
and  respect  them,  that  they  cannot  help  themselves, 
and  so  are  not  to  be  blamed,  any  more  than  they 
can  help  having  ears  and  toes  and  fingers.  If,  on 
the  contrary,  he  does  object  to  it,  and  makes  himself 
unpleasant,  he  is  worse  than  a  fool — he  is  a  mad- 
man, because  he  is  taking  away  one  form  of  food 
for  their  vanity  ;  and  if  a  man  does  not  pander,  in 
every  way,  to  the  insatiable  appetite  for  vanity 
which  is  the  great,  all-pervading  characteristic  in 
the  nature  of  many  women,  his  happiness  is  at  an 
end,  and  in  all  probability  he  drives  her  to  ruin  her 
own  reputation  by  going  elsewhere  to  have  it  fed, 

Betty  pushed  aside  all  the  letters  which  were  in 
sufficiently  good  handwritings  as  to  proclaim  them- 
selves bills,  and  pounced  upon  one  written  in  the 
niggly  style  of  men  who  wish  to  be  thought  brainy. 


aoam's  Clai5  us 

It  was  from  Valentine  Worthing,  and  bore  the 
Regent  Street  post-mark. 

The  sight  of  it  sent  a  rush  of  blood  to  her  cheeks. 
'•■  Regent  Street,"  she  cried  aloud,  and  kissed  the 
post-mark  ecstatically. 

It  only  contained  a  few  lines  with  a  ragged 
margin.  Betty  had  expected  to  find  many  pages 
full  of  baffled  desire,  beseechings,  and  anger. 

She  read  : 

"You  dear  thing:  how  hopelessly  you  misread 
me.  But  I  know  you  for  what  you  are.  Don't  I 
know  myself?  Aren't  we  precisely  alike?  We 
were  playing  exactly  the  same  game.  I  only 
wished  to  work  you  up  to  a  pitch  of  emotion 
when  you  could  refuse  me  nothing — and  then  say 
to  you,  '  No,  thanks  ! '  And  all  you  wanted  was  to 
do  the  same  to  me — and  refuse  in  the  same  way. 
There  is  a  most  euphonious  name  for  us  which  is 
not  included  in  the  dictionary.  Perhaps  you  know 
it— Tibi. 

"Valentine." 

Betty  Blundell's  mouth  took  a  hard,  angry  line, 
and  she  crushed  the  letter  into  a  ball.  Then  her 
vanity  pushed  through  her  momentary  humiliation, 


n6  Beam's  Cla^ 

and  she  smoothed  out  the  paper  and  read  it 
through  again. 

"How  clever  of  him,"  she  said,  "to  try  and  turn 
the  tables  like  that.  Any  idiot  could  see  plainly 
enough  how  successful  I  must  have  been." 

And  in  this  way  also,  Betty  proved  herself  ^o 
be  no  different  from  ninety-nine  women  out  of  a 
hundred. 


CHAPTER  XI 

Came  old  Jesse   Sloke   into    Ashley's   sitting-room 

once  more.     His  crinkled  face,  like  nothing  so  much 

as  a  dried  pippin,  was  pursed  up  with  amazement. 

His   master's  breakfast  had  been   placed,  as  it  had 

been  placed  every   morning  upon  the   table.      And 

it  was    untouched.      Old  Jesse   had    tottered  up  to 

Ashley's    bedroom    at   a  quarter   to  seven,  thinking 

perhaps  that    he  had    not  heard    the   call,  and   had 

found  the  bed  unslept  upon. 

He  looked  at  the  clock  for  the  twentieth  time.     It 

was  some  minutes  after  twelve.     Such  irregularity  in 

the  routine  of  the  farm  had  never  happened  before. 

He     had     called     his      master      at     4.30     in      the 

summer,   and    6.30    in    the   winter,    every    morning 

— every  morning  since  the  old  master  had  been  put 

under  the  Scotch  fir  in  the  little  churchyard.     Every 

mcrning  the  breakfast  had  been  put  upon  the  table 

at  lialf-past  seven  in  the  summer  and  half-past  eight 

in  the  wi:iter.     lu-ery  morning  lunch  had  b'jcn  ready 

at  one,  tea  at  five,  and  dinner  at  eight  o'clock,  and 

117 


ii8  BDam's  Cla^ 

every  evening  the  house  had  been  locked  up  and 
every  h'ght  out  by  9.30. 

What  was  the  meaning  of  this  ? 

His  annoyance  gave  way  to  anger.  What  right 
had  the  master  to  upset  everything  in  this  way  ? 
People  c;ot  used  to  things.  People — especially  when 
they  had  crossed  the  meridian  of  their  lives  with  one 
set  of  habits — couldn't  do  with  sudden  changes. 
The  old  man  walked  from  the  sitting-room  into  the 
hall  and  back  again  a  hundred  times,  arguing  in  this 
way.  Every  time  he  re-entered  the  room  his  anger 
rose.  It  was  too  bad,  he  said  to  himself.  He  was  up 
in  time  to  call  the  master — why  wasn't  the  master 
ready  to  be  called  ?  The  breakfast  had  been  got 
ready  by  his  Vv'ife  to  the  minute !  Why  v.-asn't  the 
master  ready  for  his  brealrfast?  It  was  not  fair!  It 
was  not  just!  If  the  master  wished  to  begin  being 
irregular,  he  should  have  been  irregular  years  before. 
It  wasn't  giving  him  a  chance.  It  would  take  him 
some  time  to  shake  himself  out  of  his  habits  of 
regularity. 

The  sitting-room  clock's  thin  voice  struck  one. 
The  deeper,  commoner,  rougher  voice  of  the  kitch.en 
clock  hurried  to  announce  the  same  hour. 

Fright  drove  the  old  m»an's  anger  away.  Some- 
thing had  haoDened  to   the   master — the  master  he 


Beam's  Cla^  119 

had  loved  and  served,  but  never  understood.  He 
couldn't  have  been  struck  by  lightning — there  had 
been  no  storm.  He  couldn't  have  been  attacked  by 
gipsies.  He  barely  remembered  to  have  seen  gipsies 
in  the  neighbourhood. 

Whistling,  with  a  brave  attempt  at  gaiety  and 
unconcern,  in  order  that  his  fright  might  not  spread 
itself  to  his  wife,  the  old  man  passed  through  the 
open  front  door  of  the  farm-house,  and  went  along 
the  path  to  the  white  gate,  eyeing  the  circular  beds, 
filled  with  masses  of  flowers  that  w^ere  barely  tamed, 
with  eyes  that  took  in  nothing  of  their  elementary 
colours.  Tl)ere,  with  eyes  sharpened  by  fear,  he 
gazed  up  and  down  the  road.  The  dust  lay  thickly, 
whitely,  movelessly.  In  the  air  myriads  of  golden 
specks  danced  lazily.  The  trees  perspired  under  the 
midday  sun,  and  the  sheep  lay  under  them  panting, 
too  hot  to  chew.  Not  a  fleck  of  cloud  broke  the 
faint,  endless  blue  of  the  sk}-.  The  birds  were  silent. 
Only  the  insects,  drawn  out  of  their  lairs  by  the 
warmth,  chattered  and  buzzed. 

But  nothing  could  be  seen.  Nothing  disturbed 
the  great,  soft  anthem  of  the  da\'.  NoLhing  moved 
on  the  road. 

The  old  man  shivered.  Something  had  happened 
to  the  master.     Only  once  before  had  he  felt  as  he 


I20  Edam's  Cla^ 

now  felt,  and  that  was  twenty-four  years  before, 
when,  spending  a  night  in  the  nearest  market  town 
selling  sheep  for  the  farm,  he  had  awakened  in  the 
middle  of  the  night  at  the  inn,  and  remained  awake, 
cold  and  trembling.  And  then  he  knew  something 
had  happened  to  his  wife.  And  he  had  been  right, 
for  upon  returning  in  the  morning  at  full  gallop,  he 
found  the  new-born  child  dead,  and  his  wife  half- 
way through  the  cruel  door  that  opens  at  a  touch> 
and  closes  for  ever  against  the  strongest  hand. 

Involuntarily  he  raised  his  twisted  fingers,  and 
clasped  them  together  in  front  of  his  eyes  and 
called  out  : 

"  Master,  master  !  " 

A  distant  thudding  of  heavy  steps  on  turf  took 
his  hands  trembling  to  his  sides.  With  a  spasm  of 
joy  and  relief  he  saw  the  master  coming  towards 
the  farm  at  top  speed,  runnirg  as  a  man  runs  who 
is  chased,  as  a  man  runs  v/ho  is  afra'd.  He  came 
nearer  and  nearer,  at  the  end  of  his  second  breath, 
but  fighting  his  Vv-ay  along,  and  at  Ia:;t  swung 
through  the  gate,  tore  up  the  path  and  through 
the  door,  and  flung  himself,  panting  and  dust- 
covered,  into  his  chrar. 

The  old  man  follovv'cd  nuickly.  PuttiiJg  his  head 
into    the    sitting-room    after    a   decent    interval,  he 


Beam's  Clas  121 

found  the  master  bent  double,  panting  still,  with  his 
head  between  his  hands.  Ashley  had  run  at  top 
speed,  with  all  his  strength,  but  he  had  not  been 
able  to  out-distance  himself. 

And  again  the  old  m.an  was  right.  Something 
had  happened  to  the  master.  A  woman  was  in  his 
blood  for  the  first  time  in  his  life. 


CHAPTER  XII 

Young  Ashley  felt  the  old  man's  sympathetic, 
uneasy  eyes  upon  him,  and  with  an  exclamation 
of  rage  which  Jesse  Sloke  had  never  heard  the 
master  use  before,  he  rose,  waved  him  away,  shut 
the  door  with  violence,  and  locked  it 

With  a  feeling  of  shame  upon  him,  Ashley  got 
himself  by  the  throat,  and  tried  to  shake  out  of 
his  eyes  the  face  of  the  woman.  He  cursed  himself 
for  a  fool,  and  repeated  over  and  over  again  the 
words  that  his  father  had  used. 

He  leaned  on  the  mantel-board,  and  looked  at 
the  photograph  of  his  father,  mutely,  in  an  agony 
of  self-reproach.  He  gazed,  with  the  deepest 
sympathy  and  love,  into  the  stern  e}-es,  the  lined 
face,  the  sunken  checks.  He  recalled  all  the  tender- 
ness, all  the  care,  all  the  solicitude  his  father  had 
daily  shown  him.  The  very  tones  of  his  voice  rang 
in  his  ears.  Vv'hat  a  sirunk  he  would  be  to  think 
that  he  knew  better  than  such  a  man  !  As  he 
lifted   the    photograph   to   his    lips,   with  a   renewed 

122 


BDam's  Cla^  123 

feeling  of  strength,  the  face  of  the  woman,  the 
delicately-cut  sweet  face,  with  its  large  blue  eyes 
and  exquisite  colouring,  came  between. 

For  several  hours,  with  feverish  eagerness,  Ashley 
did  everything  he  could  think  of  to  regain  mastery 
over  himself.  He  took  down  his  favourite  books 
one  after  another,  and  read  with  a  concentration 
that  was  almost  painful.  All  went  well  for  a  few 
minutes.  "  She  has  gone,"  he  said  to  himself.  And 
that  instant  the  face  looked  out  at  him  from  the 
pages.  He  put  the  books  back  into  their  places, 
and  endeavoured  to  distract  his  attention  by  making 
a  tour  of  the  long,  beamed,  low-ceilinged  room, 
looking  at  each  familiar  engraving  and  print  as 
though  he  had  never  seen  it  before.  There  was  not 
one  in  the  room,  big  or  little,  out  of  which  the  face 
did  not  grow. 

It  v;as  everywhere,  no  matter  where  he  looked.  It 
looked  down  upon  him  from  the  beams  ;  it  looked 
up  at  him  from  the  worn  carpet.  He  turned  to  the 
window  and  looked  out  at  the  trim  lav/n,  the  beds 
of  flaming  colours,  the  quaintly-cut  hedges.  Every 
diamond  pane  contained  the  face.  At  last,  worn 
out,  he  flung  him-elf,  face  downwards,  upon  the  sofa, 
buried  his  c}es  in  the  cushions  and  broke  into  the 
wild  subbings  of  a  boy. 


124  HDam's  Clap 

He  had  realised  that  he  had  been  obh'ged  to  break 
his  promise.  He  had  realised  that  it  was  too  difficult, 
too  impossible.  He  had  been  living  in  a  fool's 
paradise.  Sooner  or  later  it  was  bound  to  come — 
this  debacle,  this  great  toppling  on  to  his  head  of  the 
edifice  he  had  built  so  carefully  round  himself.  His 
father  had  imposed  too  great  a  sacrifice  upon  him. 
He  was  a  man  like  other  men.  He  had  read  of  love, 
of  lust,  impatiently.  But  love  sent  the  blood  spinning 
through  his  veins,  and  lust  beat  like  a  sledge-hammer 
at  his  temples. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

Utterly  unable  to  settle  down  to  the  work  on 
the  farm,  young  Ashley  wandered  about  the  house 
restlessly.  His  thoughts  were  chaotic.  His  whole 
mental  outlook  had  undergone  a  tremendous 
change. 

It  seemed  to  him  incredible,  almost  ludicrous,  that 
so  many  years  of  his  life  should  have  been  entirely 
devoted  to  the  common  round,  the  daily  task,  when 
the  world  contained  such  a  creature  as  the  woman  he 
had  seen  upon  the  hill  ;  a  creature  so  exquisite,  so 
sweet,  so  wonderful !  Compared  with  her,  how  com- 
monplace, how  trivial  seemed  inanimate  nature.  The 
breaking  of  day,  the  setting  of  the  sun,  the  bursting 
of  the  bud,  the  crash  of  thunder — what  were  they 
when  compared  with  the  lifting  of  a  beautiful  woman's 
eyelid,  the  touch  of  her  hand,  the  soft  murmur  of 
her  voice  ? 

All  the  man  in  him  cried  aloud  for  that  woman. 
One  sight  of  her  had  killed  every  desire  to  look  at 
anything    else.       Nothing    else    mattered.       In    an 


126  Beam's  Clai? 

instant  he  had  seen  the  emptiness,  the  incomplete- 
ness of  his  Hfe.  lie  wanted  that  woman.  He 
wanted  to  he  at  her  feet  and  watch  her  mouth  as 
she  smiled.  He  wanted  to  feel  her  cool  hand  on  his 
face,  to  taste  her  breath,  to  hold  her  tight  in  his 
arms,  to  kiss  her  hair  and  eyes  and  lips.  The  birds 
had  their  mates,  the  very  flowers  knew  the  joy  of 
marriage.  Was  he  to  be  the  one  man  in  the 
world  to  remain  unsatisfied  ? 

He  asked  himself  these  things  as  he  paced  the 
house.  When  he  went  into  the  sitting-room,  how- 
ever, he  kept  his  eyes  away  from  the  direction  of  the 
fireplace.  There  was  a  look  in  the  eyes  of  the 
photograph  that  he  could  not  meet. 

His  dinner  remained  untouched.  The  son  of  his 
father's  dead  sheep-dog  licked  his  hand,  and  received 
no  affectionate  word.  Old  Sloke  got  no  response  to 
his  nervous  "  Good-night."  The  canaries  in  the  cage 
in  the  window  sat  blinking  at  the  lamp.  No  one 
had  put  the  cover  over  the  cage.  The  clock  struck 
nine  and  ten  and  eleven,  and  still  young  Ashley 
paced  the  long  room.  Then  suddenly  he  cried  out, 
"  Father,  father  !  "  and  ran  hatlcss  into  the  night. 

A  thick  bank  of  cloud  obscured  the  moon.  The 
air  was  humid  and  damp.  Young  Ashley  left  the 
footpath    and    plunged    into    a    wood.      The    thin 


Bbain's  Cla^  127 

branches,  leaf- laden,  lashed  his  face  like  whips, 
and  tlie  roots  of  trees  cau'^ht  his  feet  as  though 
trying  to  stop  him.  As  he  (lung  tlic  branches  aside, 
lie  felt  that  he  was  freeing  himself  of  some  of  the 
things  that  kept  him  tied  to  his  promise,  and  he 
pushed  on  with  an  energy  and  a  feverishness  that 
sent  streams  of  perspiration  down  his  face. 

At  last  he  gained  the  open  road,  and  started 
rup.ning.  His  steps  rang  and  echoed  through  the 
sleeping  village.  Not  a  single  light  gleamed  in  the 
cottage  windows.  A  cat  darted  aside,  and  stood 
with  arched  back  in  the  shadow  of  the  inn  wall.  A 
retriever  gave  an  astonished  bark  as  he  went  past 
the  forge,  and  as  he  jumped  over  the  low  brick  wall 
of  the  churchyard  the  clock  struck  twelve  gravely, 
reprovingly. 

John  Ashley  stopped  at  the  grave  of  his  father. 
It  had  been  dug  at  the  farthest  corner  of  the  church- 
yard, away  from  the  graves  of  the  people  who  had 
not  left  the  world  by  a  shorter  cut  than  death  takes 
them,  but  in  consecrated  ground,  for  the  parson  was 
a  humble  man,  who  cultivated  some  of  the  spirit  of 
his  Master,  and  paid  little  heed  to  the  ignorant  and 
pompous  hypocrisy  of  his  kind. 

A  plain,  square  stone  marked  the  place  where  the 
mrm    lay    who   died    forgiving.       The    letters    of  his 


128  Beam's  Cla^ 

name,  "John  Everard  Campbell  Ashley,"  were  not 
yet  blurred  by  the  passing  of  time,  and  the  sentence 
beneath  them  stood  out  clearly  :  "  For  I  loved." 

"Father,"  whispered  young  Ashley,  "  father  !  " 

He  paused  for  an  instant  and  listened.  The  leaves 
of  a  weeping  willow  rustled  softly. 

Young  Ashley  bent  lower  over  the  stone. 

"  Father,  all  women  are  not  like  that — not  all 
women.  Even  you  forgave,  and  left  me  here  to 
go  to  the  one  you  loved.     Father !  " 

He  bent  still  lower,  and  flung  his  arm  over  the 
stone  caressingly. 

"  You  asked  too  much  of  me.  I  can't  keep  my 
promise.  Let  me  off.  I  was  happy  until  I  under- 
stood what  it  meant  to  go  without.  Until  yesterday 
I  never  had  a  wish  to  break  my  promise.  But  now 
you  must  let  me  off.  You  must.  I  love  too — madly 
as  you  did — at  once,  and  for  ever.  There's  no  fight- 
ing it.     Wherever  she  goes  I  must  go.     Father  !  " 

He  listened  again.  His  voice,  when  he  spoke 
next,  was  no  longer  pleading ;  it  was  eager, 
hopeful,  excited. 

"  Father,  you  should  see  her  !  She  isn't  the  kind 
of  woman  to  treat  me  as  you  were  treated.  She  is 
different.  She  is  like  a  flower — a  sweet,  slim  flower. 
I    thought    when    I    came    uj^on   her   that    she    was 


Beam's  Gla^  129 

growing  where  she  stood.  When  I  knew  that  she 
was  a  woman  I  ran  away.  Ah,  ha  !  think  of  that 
I  can't  Hve  alone  any  longer.  I  know  now  that  it 
isn't  life  alone.  It  is  a — a  mere  pretence  ;  not  the 
real  thing.  Why  shouldn't  I  be  allowed  to  live  ? 
I  say  that  she  isn't  a  woman  who  isn't  worthy  of 
a  man's  whole  love.  She  is  too  beautiful,  too 
wonderful  for  that.  I  must  be  let  off  and  take 
my  chance.  Father,  don't  stand  in  my  way. 
Father,  father!" 

Young  Ashley  drew  back  and  rested  for  a  long, 
listening  moment  on  his  knees.  Then  with  a  little 
cry,  half  gladness,  half  excitement,  quecrly  boyish, 
he  leant  over  the  stone  and  kissed  the  letters  of 
the  name. 

Then  he  rose  and  flung  back  his  head  and  squared 
his  shoulders.  The  cloud  passed  away  from  the 
moon,  and  its  light  showed  a  face  aglow,  with  shining 
e}'es  and  a  smile  on  the  lips. 

Walking  quickly,  yon.ng  Asliley  left  the  clairch- 
yard,  mac'.e  his  way  through  tlie  village  and  back 
through  the  copse.  The  branches  and  roots  did 
their  b::-i^t  irv::>re  eagerly  than  ever  to  hold  liirn  bad:. 
Ei.t  on  went  .Vsi'iley,  young  Ashley — and  tlie  way  he 
considered  the  right  vray  v;as  the  Vv-ay  he  wanted 
to  go. 


I30  Beam's  Cla^ 

(Ah,  ah !  young  Ashley.  So  your  father's  ex- 
perience, that  was  bought  and  paid  for,  is  no  use  to 
you,  eh?     Oh,  ho  !  young  Ashley.) 

On  the  hill  where  the  little  wonian  of  the  world 
has  risen,  young  Ashley  stopped  and  flung  out  his 
arms.  A  feeling  of  enormous  relief  passed  over  him. 
He  was  free !     Free,  and  still  friends  with  his  father. 

And  he  was  in  love  for  the  first  time  in  his  life. 
He  joyed  in  it.  It  was  delicious.  He  would  marry 
her,  of  course,  and  take  her  home  to  his  farm,  or  go 
into  the  world  with  her.  Where,  it  didn't  matter,  so 
long  as  she  was  at  his  side.  God!  what  a  day! 
Books  were  all  very  well  once.  Pictures  were  all 
very  well  in  the  old  days.  Nature,  whose  every 
mood  he  understood,  was  all  veiy  well  so  very  long 
ago.  But  what  were  they  as  compared  to  llesh  and 
blood,  the  beauty,  the  grace,  the  mystery  of  a 
woman  ? 

"Dead  thing:-,"  he  ciied,  "dead  things,  I  want 
life  I " 


CHAPTER  XIV 

"  I  WENT  out  to  my  hill  again  this  afternoon,"  wrote 
little  Mrs.  Blundell — "but  my  man  wasn't  there. 
The  grass  was  still  flat  and  sorry  for  itself  where 
his  great  body  had  been ;  and  having  nothing  better 
to  do,  I  sat  there  to  wait  for  him. 

"  I  had  plenty  to  think  about.  I  had  that  morn- 
ing received,  among  the  batch  you  sent  me  from 
the  flat,  a  most  insolent,  and  yet  a  most  ingenious 
letter  from  Valentine  Worthing.  I  wonder  why 
men  who  wish  people  to  think  they  are  clever 
always  cultivate  the  same  tiny  writing,  and  sign 
tlieir  names  so  th;;t  they  cannot  possibly  be  made 
out?  Valentine  Worthing's  handwriting  is  smaller 
and  more  slovenly  than  most.  He  said,  in  effect, 
that  he  had  all  along  perfectly  well  understood  the 
game  I  had  been  playing  v/itli  him,  and  that  he  had 
been  playing  precisely  the  same  ganiu  wiih  me. 
Of  course  I  don't  believe  this.  K  is  so  easy  to 
guess  the  solution  of  a  riddle  after  on:;  has  hc2n 
told  tlie  answer.     I\Iy  suddenly  going  away  gave  him 

131 


132  H&am'5  Cla^ 

the  cue  to  my  pastime.  But  I  couldn't  feel  any 
annoyance  with  him.  x\ll  I  felt  was  that,  after  all, 
he  was  merely  an  ordinary,  commonplace  person^ 
with  the  addition  of  a  hideous  deformity.  What, 
I  confess,  did  anger  me  were  the  letters  from  my 
tradespeople  asking  me  for  immediate  settlement- 
What  a  peculiar  race  tradespeople  are.  Immediate 
settlement  is  the  most  ridiculous  expression.  Of 
course,  naturally — like  anyone  else  who  is  expected 
to  do  with  the  pittance  of  a  naval  officer's  wife — 
I  am  hideously  in  debt.  My  dressmaker's  bill  makes 
my  blood  run  cold.  What  Evelyn  will  say  I  can 
conceive  only  too  well.  That  one  of  Friola's  alone 
would,  if  settled  as  it  stands,  swamp  a  year's  pay ! 
And  I  have  repeatedly  assured  him  that  I  have 
done  extremely  well  on  the  allowance  he  made  me. 
I  know  what  it  means.  It  means  that  I  shall  have 
to  devote  all  my  time  and  all  my  best  smiles  to 
him  to  get  him  to  write  to  his  uncle  for  the  money. 
He'll  kick,  anyhow.  He  calls  it  eating  the  pie  of 
humiliation  to  borrow  money.  In  the  end  the 
payment  I  shall  make  liim  for  doing  so  will  heal 
his  woinilcd  pride — but  at  what  inconvenience 
to  me ! 

"  It  was  reall)'  a  perfect  afternoon.     A  faint  breeze 
had  got  up  and  the  air  was  cooler.     It  was  so  clear 


BDam'5  Cla^  133 

that  sitting  on  my  hill  I  felt  I  could  see  for  miles. 
I  think  I  am  getting  almost  to  like  this  placid 
place.  The  feeling  was  an  extraordinary  one.  I 
was  so  awfully  alone.  It  was  like  waking  to  find 
oneself  thrust  back  three  or  four  hundred  years, 
with  nothing  left  of  the  life  one  knew  but  a  memory. 
It  seemed  inconceivable,  sitting  there  surrounded 
by  trees  and  fields,  fields  and  trees,  and  sky — sky — 
sky,  that  such  things  as  streets  and  cabs  and 
buildings  and  people  existed  anywhere,  I  sat  for 
half  an  hour  perfectly  happy — can  you  believe  it, 
knowing  me?  It's  odd,  but  do  you  know,  Milly, 
except  for  this  peculiar,  ever-present  desire  to  pose 
and  tease  and  tempt  people  of  the  opposite  sex, 
I  believe  I  should  be  quite  a  dear — an  artist  or  a 
painter  or  a  poet.  Sometimes — not  often — I  am 
sorry  that  I  am  not,  and  I  am  almost  inclined  to 
think  of  my  father  and  mother  with  dislike  for 
having  grafted  in  me  this  thing  Valentine  said 
that  he  understood.  I  suppose  it  is  rather — well, 
unkind  !  I  am  certain  it  will  land  me  in  hot  water 
sooner  or  later.  I'll  give  it  up  some  day,  perhaps, 
and  develop  some  other  kind  of  taste — the  ordinary 
one,  perhaps,  and  go  in  for  having  children,  and 
being  normal  and  healthy.  Eut  not  yet  .  .  .  not 
while  my  man  of  the   woods   remains    unexplored. 


^34  HDam's  Gla^ 

Unconsiously  he  has  flaitcred  my  vanity  to  such 
an  extent  that  even  if  it  meant  losing  everything — 
I  mean  Evelyn  and  respectability  and  all  that — I 
am  bound  to  go  on.  I  am  bound  to  try  effects 
with  this  quaint,  primeval  giant.  Fancy  his 
running  away  like  that ! 

"  I  shall  never  forget  the  look  he  gave  me.  It 
acted  on  my  vanity  like  oil.  I  don't  know  how 
quite  to  describe  it  to  you.  I  am  sure  there  was  fear 
in  his  eyes.  And  of  course  there  was  the  wildest 
admiration.  I  am  not  sure  there  wasn't  just  a  touch 
of  reverence.  And  better  still,  there  was  desire. 
That's  what  I  like  to  see.  For  then  my  fun  begins, 
and  I  feed  the  fire  like  a  stoker,  add  log  upon  log 
to  the  fl-me,  till,  just  as  it  is  about  to  flare  up  and 
burn  me,  I  slip  away.  You  don't  understand  the 
fascination  of  this,  but  then  you  are  not  beautiful, 
dear  Milly.  .  .  .  I\Io-t  be-iutiful  women  have  tasted 
the  delight,  at  one  time  or  another,  even  if  they 
don't  use  their  power  often.  It  t's  a  power.  No 
King,  no  Prime  i\Iinistcr,  no  General,  no  despot,  no 
slave-owner  can  ever  feel  so  utterly  all-powerful 
as  a  beautiful  woman  who  has  a  mian  cringing  at 
her  feet.  I  suppose  I'm  an  awful  fool  to  give  myself 
away  in  black-and-wiiite  like  this,  even  to  such  a 
dear  old    o}  stcr  as  I    know  }OU  to  be.      If  ever  you 


BDam'3  (Zlnv  135 

were  to  quarrel  with  mc,  gcodness,  wouldn't  you 
have  the  whip  in  your  hand  !  But  you  won't.  I 
know  that.  And,  you  see,  I  feci  that  I  have  to 
share  my  triumphs  with  someone.  And  writing 
letters  to  you  is  a  far  more  satisfactory  way  of 
feeding  my  vanity  than  putting  it  down  in  a  diary. 
I  have  tlie  greatest  contempt  for  v/omen  who  keep 
diaries.     They  are  such  liars. 

"  Well,  I  waited  on  our  hill  in  this  ecstatic  moot] 
for  two  hours,  and  I  believe  I  should  have  been 
there  two  hours  longer  but  for  a  sudden  clap  of 
thunder,  following  a  vivid  flash  of  lightning, 
Without  my  noticing  tliem,  a  great  bank  of  clouds 
had  been  gathering  behind  me.  I  jumped  up  as 
the  first  spot  of  rain  hit  me — positively  hit  mc — on 
the  cheek.  With  it — what  an  odd  thing  the  brain 
is ! — came  a  sudden  inspiration.  Time  was  short, 
and  as  Mahomet  wouldn't  come  to  the  mountain, 
the  mountain  would  have  to  go  to  Mahomet.  Do 
you  see?  I  made  up  my  mind  to  take  advantage 
of  the  storm,  make  my  way  quickly  to  his  farm- 
house, run  to  the  door  with  my  best  expression  of 
timid  fright,  and  beg  for  shelter. 

"  This  I  did,  half  regretting  it  when  I  found  that  I 
was  bound  to  cover  at  least  a  mile  and  a  half.  My 
dear,  it  came  down,  literally,  in  buckets.     Luckily  I 


13(3  E?>airi'3  Clas) 

ii?.d  on  one  of  my  oldest  frocks,  for  it  was  wringing 
wet  in  no  time.  Every  time  a  fl;>sh  came  and  the 
flame  darted  about  amon^ij  the  tiecs,  I  wished  I 
hadn't  come.  Every  time  I  saw  how  my  frock 
clung  to  me,  I  was  glad  I  had.  I  was  dead-beat 
when  at  last,  a  drowned  rat,  I  reached  the  farm.  I 
vv-asn't  sure  that  it  was  /i/s  farm,  but  it  was  the  only 
one  about,  so  I  ran  up  to  the  door  and  rang  the 
bell.  It  was  opened  by  an  old  man,  with  a  prim, 
crinkled  face,  who  looked  as  though  he  saw  a  ghost, 
I  begged  him  to  let  me  sit  somewhere  out  of  the 
storm,  giving  him  a  faint,  sweet  smile.  Gasping 
with  surprise  and  with  a  wistful  attempt  at 
politeness,  he  asked  me  to  enter  the  master's 
room. 

"My  heart  jumped.  The  blinds  v\^ere  down,  the 
fire-irons  and  the  glass  were  covered  up  with  a  cloth. 
I  stood  for  a  moment,  looking  round — such  a  lovely 
old  room,  beautifully  furnished — and  the  old  person 
murm.ured  something  about  fetching  his  wife  and 
ran  off. 

"  The  old  woman  came  almost  at  once.  A  nice 
old  body,  quite  flustered  with  excitement.  '  Oh, 
poor  lady,'  she  cried;  'such  a  beautiful  dress  too!' 
And  then,  talking  all  the  time,  she  ran  upstairs. 
and  presently  came  down  with  a  towel  and  a  man's 


SDain'5  Cla^  137 

drcssincj-c^own  and  slippers.  Shutting  the  door, 
talking  nineteen  to  the  dozen,  she  undid  my  frock, 
rubbed  my  hands  and  face,  took  off  my  hat  and 
sjioes  and  stockings,  put  on  the  dressing-gown — 
'  ?-.Ir.  Ashley's/  she  said  —  Jiis,  Milly  dear  !  —  and 
then  ran  to  the  kitchen  with  my  wet  things. 

"Isn't  my  kick  astounding?  Here  was  I,  not 
only  in  Jiis  own  room,  but  in  his  own  room  in  such 
a  helpful  costume !  Think  of  it  from  the  purely 
artistic  point  of  view.  The  dressing-gown — evi- 
dently one  John  Ashley  wore  in  his  early  youth — 
showed  my  neck,  and  my  ankles  and  feet, — my 
feet  thrust  into  a  pair  of  red  list  slippers  of  the 
most  elephantine  description.  The  rain  had  made 
my  always  curly  hair  all  the  more  curly.  I  felt  like 
Trilby  in  the  studio,  and  I'm  sure  I  looked  infinitely 
sweeter  than  the  one  I  saw. 

"Suddenly  I  heard  a  deep  voice;  then  two 
others  excitedly  joining  in.  The  door  opened  and 
the  old  woman  came  in,  followed  by  —  oh,  what 
luck  is  mine ! — my  untamed  man  of  the  woods,  my 
primeval  giant." 


CHAPTER  XV 

Mrs.  Blundell  put  her  pen  down,  threw  back  her 
head,  and  burst  into  a  peal  of  laughter.  The  silver 
notes  of  it  danced  about  the  little  room  long  after 
she  started  writing  again. 

"  For  some  time  he  stood  in  the  doorway,  his 
handsome,  unusual  head  almost  touching  the  frame- 
work, blushing  like  a  school-boy.  I  stood  up,  timid, 
sliy,  constrained,  clutching  the  dressing-gown 
nervously  about  me,  wordless,  like  an  ingenue  in 
a  play.  The  old  vroman,  with  a;l  the  latent 
romance  in  her  nature  stirred,  babbled  the  story 
of  my  arrival,  while  the  old  man  got  a  word  in 
here  and  there,  whenever  she  was  positively  obliged 
to  stop  for  breath,  The  situation  was  immensely 
amusing,  What  more  picturesque  introduction  to 
him  could  I  have  possibly  desired  ? 

" '  I  will  go  and  make  some  tea  for  the  \-oung 
lady,    sir,'    said    the    old    woman    at    last.      '  Come, 


HDam's  Clav?  139 

Jesse,  quick.'  The  door  closed  upon  them,  and 
we  were  alone. 

"  Have  you  ever  experienced  that  horrible 
desire  to  laugh  in  church,  or  at  a  funeral,  or  in  the 
midst  of  some  quite  serious  scene  at  the  theatre? 
The  desire  to  laugh  inordinately  seized  mc,  then. 
Luckily  a  sneeze  came,  and  gave  me  relief,  or  I 
feel  certain  I  should  have  fallen  into  the  nearest 
chair  and  yelled  ! 

"My  dear  Milly,  his  face  v/as  a  picture.  It  was 
positively  alight  !  His  eyes  danced  and  gleamed 
with  pleasure  and  excitement.  He  looked  at  me 
as  though  he  could  have  eaten  me.  But  he  made 
no  attempt  to  speak.  He  simply  stood  behind  a 
tall-backed  chair  (quite  a  good  chair,  excellently 
carved,  and  so  old),  leaiiing  on  the  back  of  it, 
gazing  at  me. 

" '  I — I  am  so  very  sorry  to  put  everybody  to 
so  much  trouble,'  I  said,  in  that  high-pitched, 
girlish  voice  which  has  always  been  one  of  my 
most  valuable  stock-in-trades.  '  I  don't  think  I 
ever  remember  such  a  violent  storm.  I  am 
dreadfully  nervous  of  lightning.' 

"  I  paused  and  looked  up  at  him.  A  smile  passed 
over  his  face.  It  had  the  most  extraordinary  effect 
upon  it.     It  looked  as  a  field  looks  when  a  sudden 


14°  B^atn'5  Cla^ 

shaft  of  sun  sweeps  across  it.  But  he  said  nothing. 
I  don't  think  he  was  nervous  or  shy  as  we  mean 
it  ordinarily.  He  merely  seemed  infinitely  de- 
lighted in  a  boyish  kind  of  way.  He  made  me 
feel  as  though  I  were  a  new  horse,  or  the  latest 
gun  presented  to  him  on  his  birthday.  At  first 
his  continuous,  wide-eyed  stare  made  me  quite 
uncomfortable,  and  I  don't  think  he  listened  to 
a  single  word  of  my  small-talk.  He  simply  stood 
there,  in  an  easy,  unself-conscious  attitude,  his 
deeply-tanned  hands  clasped  round  the  back  of 
the  chair,  devouring  me. 

"  I  babbled  on.  I  said  how  very  kind  he  was  to 
take  me  in,  how  very  sorry  I  was  to  put  his  servants 
to  any  inconvenience,  and  what  a  lovel}/  old  house 
it  seemed  to  be.  Quite  twenty  minutes  of  this 
one-sided  conversation  went  on — if  a  conversation 
can  be  called  one-sided  when  one  person  replies 
silently  through  the  medium  of  a  pair  of  extremely 
expressive  eyes,  and  says  tilings  which  no  one 
except  a  poet  Vv^ould  have  the  pluck  to  say,  unless 
he  were  engaged  to  be  married. 

"  I  confess  I  was  a  little  relieved  when  the  old 
couple  brought  in  a  tea-tray.  I  had  begun  to 
feel  that  I  had  exhausted  every  subject  of  a 
commonplace  nature  I  1-ad  ever  thought  about. 


Beam's  Cla^  141 

'"Shall  I  pour  out  the  tea  ?'  I  asked,  with  a 
tiny,  timid  smile,  when  we  were  alone  again. 

"'Thank  you,'  he  said. 

"  And  all  the  time  he  stood  in  front  of  me  watching 
me  intently  with  an  interest  almost  whimsical.  It 
made  the  old  occupation  almost  a  new  one,  when 
I  suddenly  remembered  that  I  was  the  first  woman 
— gentlewoman — who  had  ever  done  so  for  him. 
He  bowed  as  he  took  his  cup,  and  instantly  for- 
getting that  he  had  got  it  in  his  hand,  watched 
me  as  I  stirred  mine  and  sipped  it. 

"  Slaving  nothing  more  to  say,  and  not  feeling  the 
need  of  making  conversation,  I  contented  myself 
with  returning  his  smile  when  I  caught  his  rapt  eyes, 
and  ate.  The  run,  and  the  cooler  air,  had  made 
me  ravenous,  and  the  cakes  were  home  -  made  and 
perfectly  delicious.  And  while  I  ate  and  drank  I 
looked  about  me.  Such  a  dear  old  room,  Milly — 
just  the  sort  of  room  one  reads  about  in  books,  and 
so  rarely  comes  across  in  real  life.  It  was  long  and 
narrovv' — at  least  its  length  gave  it  the  appearance 
of  narrowness — and  v/as  lined,  five  feet  from  the  old 
oak  floor  v>'ith  bulging  book-shelves,  except  where  the 
great  Dutch  fireplace  stood.  And  above  the  books, 
right  up  to  the  ceiling,  hung  pictures —pictures  of 
all    kinds    and    sizes  —  paintings,    etchings,    prints 


142  Hbam's  Cla^ 

engravings,  all  good  and  old,  and  in  the  best  taste. 
I  could  sec  Carlyle  in  the  shelves,  and  Shakespeare, 
Dickens,  George  Eliot,  Thackeray,  Swift,  Addison, 
Gibbon,  Milton,  Byron,  Keats,  Goldsmith,  and 
Heaven  knows  who  besides.  At  any  rate,  all  the 
people  one  calls  dry.  There  were,  so  far  as  I  could 
see,  no  modern  books,  no  novels.  And  they  all 
looked  in  that  worn  condition,  that  comfortable, 
bulgy  state  into  which  books  get  that  are  frequently 
in  hand.  They  didn't  stare  out  at  one  in  the  stiff, 
proud,  pained  way  as  they  do  out  of  the  shelves  of 
those  people  who  put  them  there,  calf-bound,  for 
show.  They  beamed  at  me,  in  a  jovial,  friendly 
manner,  like  so  many  elderly  uncles  with  rosy  cheeks 
and  white  hair,  and  portly  stomachs.  Dear  old 
things,  I  loved  them.  And  as  for  the  pictures,  they 
clung  to  the  walls  as  though  they  had  grown  upon 
them,  and  never  wished  to  leave  go.  Here  a  big 
one,  there  a  little  one — anyhow,  all  higgledy-piggledy, 
and  yet  exactly  as  they  ought  to  be. 

"  At  ti.c  far  end  of  the  room,  a  lonrj;,  low  window, 
diamond-pancd,  with  shutters  of  black  oak,  threw 
the  light  over  a  deep  winclow-scat  covered  with  a 
rose-bud  chintz,  very  worn  and  dimmed,  upon  the 
polished  oak  floor.  And  through  this  I  could  catch 
a   glimpse  of  antediluvian   Scotch    firs   standing  in 


HOam's  Cla^  143 

their  peculiar,  silent,  dignified  manner  here  and  there 
upon  a  lawn.  Behind  them,  and  in  front  of  a  stained 
but  steady  red  wall,  were  beds  chokinc^  with  masses 
of  cloves  and  pinks,  and  Sweet  Williams  and  London 
Pride,  and  all  those  country-cousin  flowers  that  have 
become  the  fashion  again  with  us.  And  over  the 
wall  the  tops  of  many  dusky  red  barns  and  out- 
houses peeped,  in  quite  a  curious  way. 

"  The  whole  place  fitted  my  giant  like  a  glove. 
It  was  all,  like  him,  so  good  to  look  at,  so  simple, 
so  upright,  so  clean,  picturesque,  and  unconscious. 
It  all,  like  him,  seemed  to  be  utterly  behind  the 
times,  utterly  unknowing,  utterly  unspoilt.  And  as 
he  stood  there,  tanned  a  brick-dust  colour,  with 
his  eyes  clear  and  steady  and  child-like,  his  eyebrows 
and  hair  burnt  copper,  his  back  broad  and  straight, 
his  long,  well-set  legs  firm  and  strong,  upon  my 
honour,  he  seemed  to  be  related  to  the  Scotch  firs, 
the  very  child  of  the  old  wonderful  books,  the  dark, 
beautiful  prints. 

"  It  wouldn't  have  surprised  me  in  the  least  if,  at 
night,  vrhcn  he  sat  at  the  little  flap  -  table  at  his 
dinner,  shining  with  health  and  fresh  air,  with  the 
light  of  the  cranky  lamp  throwing  his  strong  features 
upon  the  wall,  these  old  books  popped  out  of  the 
shelves  and  stood  round  him,  with  their  glasses  on 


144  BDam's  Cla\} 

their  noses,  and  talked,  while  he  said  '  Yes,  sir,'  and 
'No,  sir,'  and  'Indeed,  sir!'  in  his  deep,  vibrating 
voice. 

•'  When  I  looked  at  him,  after  all  these  things  had 
flashed  through  my  head,  there  he  was  still  standing 
in  front  of  me,  untouched  cup  in  hand,  watching. 

"  Any  other  man  would  have  been  boorish, 
impossible.  But  oddly  enough,  I  looked  for  nothing 
else  in  my  giant. 

"  Nothing  that  he  could  have  said,  of  course, 
could  have  fed  my  vanity  half  so  satisfactorily  as 
this  long,  silent,  meaning  stare.  Every  second  the 
expression  in  his  eyes  changed.  Wonder  came, 
love  came  —  that  new-born  wonderful  love  —  the 
first  love — passion  came.  But  not,  1  must  own,  till 
in  an  experimentary  way  I  slipped  my  foot  out  of 
its  red  felt  barge,  and  pushed  it  out  from  under  the 
dressing-gown.  Then  he  clutched  the  chair  tight, 
and  turned  his  eyes  av/ay,  with  quick  breath  coming 
and  going,  and  v;hen  he  looked  again  my  foot  was 
out  of  sight. 

"  Oh,  ]\IilI}',  v.-hat  a  power  it  is !  Bear.L  or  not,  I 
know  nothing  in  this  world  that  gives  nie  so  keen, 
so  delirious  a  pleasure  as  the  exercise  of  it.  I  feel 
almost  magical.  It  gives  me  the  faculty  of  turning 
a  man  into  a  hungry  animal — even  such  a  man  as 


this  one,  who  is  ashamed  and  fearful,  and  who,  for 
choice,  would  forget  everything  except  just  fhat  I 
am  beautiful  and  dainty  and  ethereal. 

"  But  I  had  broken  the  spell.  He  put  down  his 
cup  and  awoke.  His  smile  became  self-conscious 
and  nervous.  He  fidgeted  shyly,  began  sentences 
and  left  them  unfinished.  Luckily,  the  old  woman 
came  in  and  said  my  dress  was  dry,  and  the  storm 
had  passed  some  time.  There  would  be  no  more 
lightning.  And  so,  with  a  smile  as  nervous  as  his 
own,  and  every  bit  as  shy,  I  hurried  after  the  old 
body  out  of  the  room  and  upstairs  to  hers. 

"  It  cost  me  half  a  sovereign.  I  would  gladly  have 
paid  fifty  times  that  amount  for  the  afternoon. 

"  I  dressed  quietly,  listening  to  the  garrulous 
chatter  of  the  well-meaning  dame — my  frock  was 
utterly  ruined  —  and  then  followed  her  down  to 
the  hall. 

" '  Good-bye,  Mr.  Ashley,'  I  said,  giving  him  my 
hand  timidly.     '  Thank  you  so  much  ! '" 


CHAPTER  XVI 

"FIe  took  my  hand  for  an  instant,  and  then  letting 
it  go  said,  stammering,  '■  x\';ay  I      .  .  n.vy  I   .  .  .' 

'•'Oh,  that's  very  l.ind  of  you.  Indeed  I  shall 
be  derghted,  I  thinlv  tii.  htorrn  ha-,  made  me 
nervous.' 

"On  t];e  fr:ce  of  thi  old  woman  as  she  \va':ched 
us  go  out  tog'jther  tp.crc  was  a  pccidiar  smile  in 
whieh  I  could  read  a  ro-awakencd  lOmance,  an 
almost  patheLic  hope.  But  ilic  old  man  scowled 
at  me.  I  was  a  new  invention,  ar;d  therefore — 
he  Vv-as  thoroughly  English — a  danger.  I  had  tlie 
satisfaction  of  knovving  tlint  I  v.-as  the  iviA  unvillai^y 
womar, — I  liatc  the  w.-rd  lady,  it  rcek.-j  of  tram-cars 
and  clearc.ncc  sales  and  subm-ban  tea-fights — who 
hac'  ever  been  seen  witb  '  the  rnister.' 

"The  Vvdiite  dust  of  die  morning  had  bccom.c  mud. 
Pools  had  formed  alcn;,;  li  e  cd^es  of  ihe  road.  A 
kind  of  stc;un  rf;!.c  hoin  t'r.c  cardi;  and  the  heads 
of  the  com,  vdd  h  bcTo'c  iia-^  been  s'raiinng  to 
catch    wlu'.tc'''cr    moi;;'i.ui '^    th.c    air    coti'aincd.    were 


Hbam's  Cla^  147 

bending  down  looking  gratefully  at  the  soft  earth  at 
their  feet.  It  was  a  couple  of  hours  before  sunset, 
and  the  sun,  even  then  quite  warm,  fell  softly  upon 
everything.  The  celicious  air  was  alive.  Thousands 
—  tens  of  thousands  of  gnats  moved  in  thick 
battalions  above  our  he.ids,  and  to  the  right  and 
left  the  air  was  filled  with  the  cheerful,  refreshed 
voices  of  birds. 

"  The  freshness  of  everything  was  contagious.  We 
b -th  walked  on  springs.  For  no  reason  at  all  we 
both  laughed.  A  bird  wiiich,  after  struggling  wildly 
and  tugging  with  all  its  might  at  a  Vvorm  in  a 
corn-field,  let  go  and  darted  annoycdl}'  avv'ay  at  our 
approach,  brought  it  io  our  lips.  Our  own  sliadows, 
his  so  long,  mine  so  short,  cast  on  the  road  in  front 
of  us,  set  us  off.  We  were  lik-e  two  school-C'iildren 
let  loose  after  scliool.  I  believe  if  I  had  started 
running  hcltcr  -  skelter  along  the  road  he  would 
have  chased  me. 

"  All  his  shyness  faded.  With  the  pride  of  the 
proprietor  he  pointed  out  to  me  the  excellence  of 
the  crops,  laughingly  explaining  the  difference 
between  corn  and  barley,  barley  and  oats.  He 
never  referred  to  his  first  meeting  me  on  the  hill, 
but  he  referred  to  the  hill,  and  told  me — no  doubt 
thinking  what  a  diplomatic  touch  it  was — that  he 


148  HDam's  Cla^ 

always  spent  a  certain  amount  of  time  there  every 
day  in  the  summer,  readinj^. 

" '  To-morrow,'  he  added,  '  I  shall  be  there  in  the 
afternoon.' 

"  The  sun  had  begun  to  set  when  I  got  back  to 
the  cottage.  My  dear,  we  had  taken  two  hours  to 
walk  two  miles.  This  time  Jie  had  done  all  the 
talking,  and  if  I  needed  any  convincing  on  the 
subject,  he  had  convinced  me  as  to  his  being  the 
most  interesting  person  on  whom  to  exercise  my 
peculiar  gifts  of  any  I  had  ever  met.  He  had 
proved  what  a  boy  he  was,  and  what  a  man  he  was, 
how  immense  was  his  knowledge  of  Nature,  and 
how  infinitesimal  of  human  nature — what  an  artist 
he  was,  and  what  a  Goth.  Oh,  my  dear,  1  feel  that 
I  am  going  to  have  some  of  the  mo-t  enjoyable 
da3'.-5  I  shall  ever  have  in  my  life." 


CHAPTER  XVII 

A  SMILE  was  still  playing  round  his  nriouth  as 
Ashley  swung  into  the  road.  He  had  removed  his 
cap  to  Mrs.  BlundcU  with  the  air  of  a  Quixote. 
He  had  not  forgotten  to  put  it  back.  He  kept  his 
head  bare  to  the  soft  breeze  as  a  tribute  to  her  as 
he  made  his  way  unconsciously  to  the  hill  where 
he  had  seen  her  first. 

He  stood  there  erect  and  fiim  as  the  sun  slipped 
away, 

A  thousand  voices  sang  to  him.  It  was  a  new 
song,  a  song  he  had  never  heard  before.  It  stirred 
and  soothed  and  excited  hi  in.  It  made  him  smile 
and  tremble.  It  filled  hhn  with  fear  and  joy.  Love 
had  thrust  her  C;olden  key  into  his  long-closed  heart, 
turned  it  in  the  rusty  lock,  and  ilung  tlie  door 
wide  open. 

He    understood    everything.     He    had    not    been 

liviiig  hitherto.     He  had  thought  that  it   was   right 

tliat  Hrr  sliould  get  everything  out  of  him  that  was 

in     iiiui    to    devote    to    it.     aow    he    kucw    tiiat    he 

149 


ISO  HDam'9  Cla^ 

should  get  everything  out  of  life  that  there  was  in 
it  to  devote  to  him.  The  whole  aspect  of  things 
was  suddenly  changed.  It  was  as  though  someone 
had  suddenly  planted  him  on  his  feet  after  he  had 
been  standing  all  his  life  on  his  head. 

He  was  amazed  to  think  that  he  could  have  spent 
all  his  years  in  such  a  position.  Everything,  for  the 
first  time,  looked  right.  The  sun  became  his  servant 
instead  of  his  master,  the  earth  his  very  good  friend, 
instead  of  a  tyrant  at  whose  very  change  of  mood 
he  shuddered.  Evcrytliing  that  had  seemed  great 
became  tiny,  minute,  a  matter  of  slight  consequence. 
What  did  it  matter  now  if  frost  spoilt  his  early  roots, 
rain  his  crops  ?  Nothing.  Nothing  mattered ! 
Nothing  of  importance  existed  in  the  world  except 
love.  Not  the  kind  of  love  he  had  given  to  his 
father.  Not  the  love  he  had  dnce  poured  out  upon 
his  books.  N^:r  the  love  he  felt  for  Nature.  Tliose 
were  m.ild,  gentle  kinds  of  love  more  suite::  to 
women.  He  had  sudc'enly  become  awake.  The 
only  love  that  mattered  to  him  was  the  love  that 
was  alive.  The  only  thing  worth  living  fr-r  was  just 
to  liold  Jicr — the  woman — tight  agaiiist  his  heart,  to 
feel  her  breath  upon  h's  lips,  the  rise  and  fa'.l  of  l':er 
bo:-om  again-st  his  ciicst,  the  scent  of  her  h.air  in  his 
brain,  to  watch  hei   as  she  moved,  to  touci^  her,  to 


kiss  iier,  to  fall  asleep  in  tier  arms,  lantaiid,  plicid, 
content. 

For  hours  he  stood  there,  lookinfy  out,  but  seeing 
nothin;;^,  a  rush  of  new  thoughts  tumbling  over  one 
another  in  his  brain. 

TIic  sun  touc'icd  'is  face  v/ith  hi;.;  rosy  h.and  and 
went  down.  The  mo'xn  shop  :d  in'o  her  pdace,  and 
smiled  faintly  upon  liirn.  T;;.;  stars,  like  a  bevy  of 
chiklren  when  the  sc'.ool  dcors  swirg  >.ack-,  rushed 
into  the  open,  in  great  clnsicrs  ;  a  big  one, 
a,dmonishing,  amicisc  groups  rrf  youngsters  almost 
t(jO  young  to  walk  alone.  Cr.e  by  one  the  lights 
went  out  in  the  vilki,  :e  beneath,  Ihe  occasion.:;.! 
tai  t  shiiut  ceas„d.  Only  the  clock  ki  the  tower 
of  t're  churck.  reniainec!  aw/ke.  With  relentless 
puncLuakty,  tii(3ugh  e'-.vys  with  a  '-^r.gf^c-tion  of 
svk^e^xes",  h^r  mel'ow  voice  sang  the  d.^ilh  and 
uirui  Ui   Lne  hours. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

"  Another  day  gone  of  the  few  that  are  left  to  me, 

Milly.     The  rapidity  with  which  they  slip  through 

my  fingers  is  positively  illegal.     What  wouldn't    I 

give  to  be  able  to  inform  some  authority  or  other 

of    their    excessive    speed,   and    get   them    to   post 

policemen    on   the   road   to   see  thet  they  go  at  a 

quarter  the  pace. 

"  It's  always  the  way  when  one  is  really  putting 

in  a  good    time.       I    remember  how  the  Christmas 

holidays  used  to  melt  and  dwindle  in  the  palm  of 

my  hand.     Looking  back  at  them  from  this  distance 

— and  the  milestones  increase  every  day,  the  beastly 

things ! — they  seem  to  have  been   pretty  poor  fun. 

The  force  of  contrast,  I  suppose.     Then   I  thought 

the  dresses  cut  just  below  the  knee,  run  up  hastily 

by  a  cheap  woman,  from  material  mother  used  to  get 

at  sales,  were  perfect.      How   I   used   to  prance  in 

those  days,  when  I  went  to  a  dance  in  some  f"eeble 

piece  of  mother's  jewellery  in  v/hich  there  was  even 

a  suggestion  of  a  diamond.     Insidious  things  !     They 

152 


H&am's  Clap  153 

are  accountable  for  more  sheer  immorality  in  this 
world  than  either  curiosity,  vanity,  or  innocence.  I 
suppose  there  are  very  few  w^omen — decently  bred, 
1  mean  —  who  will  not  consent  to  anything,  how- 
ever dangerous,  when  an  exquisite  diamond  is  held 
in  front  of  her  nose.  Mother  once  consented  to  let 
me  wear  the  ring  poor  old  father  gave  her  when 
they  were  engaged.  He  had  just  got  his  company 
in  those  days,  and  thought  he  was  passing  rich  on 
his  ^^240  a  year.  Mother  kept  the  ring  in  its  box 
at  the  back  of  her  wardrobe,  among  his  love- 
letters,  and  only  wore  it  on  state  occasions.  She 
thought  it  contained  the  three  finest  diamonds  in 
the  world.  Funny,  isn't  it  ?  I  suppose  I  am  one 
of  those  women  who  are  born  with  the  sense — but 
directly  I  had  it  on  I  knew  that  they  were  paste. 
It  quite  took  the  vim  out  of  that  dance.  I  felt 
limp  and  spiritless.  The  only  thing  that  saved  it 
from  utter  failure  was  a  wild  flirtation  with  the 
host,  a  bald  -  headed,  beady  -  eyed  man  of  thirty- 
eight.  I  was  fifteen.  He  tried  to  kiss  me.  I 
boxed  his  ears  so  hard  that  my  hand  ached.  I 
shall  never  forget  the  expression  on  his  face. 
He  stood  looking  at  me  for  about  three  minutes 
quite  si  1,  lit.  Then  lie  said  suddenly:  '  ILive  you 
read    'xipling?'     'Yes,'  I  answered,  wondering  what 


154  B^am3  Cla'Q 

on  earth  lq  meant;  'everything  of  his  I  could  get 
hold  of.'  'Ah,'  he  replied,  'one  cf  these  days, 
inevitably,  when  your  beauty  gets  stale,  you  will 
be  following  what  he  aptly  terms  "the  oldest 
profession  in  the  world." ' 

"What  a  bea-'t  that  min  wns !  I  h.adn't  the 
faintest  idea  wliat  he  m-za-'it  t''.en,  I  believe  T  took 
it  as  a  subtle  compliment ;  bi;t  wb.cn,  after  the 
ho';da}'s,  I  asked  one  of  the  gr. vcr:"!e-ses  the 
mealing  of  it,  I  simply  laughed.  B;  ing  a  soldier, 
he  was  no  psycholc-gist,  r.atura';}',  -•■. id  if  c\-ci-  a 
man  m.-.dc  a  mistake  in  his  life  that  man  is  he. 
It's  quile  the  last  thir.g'  in  t!:e  Vv'orlJ  I  should  take 
to.  In  my  opinion,  there  are  or.ly  tv/o  reasons  •,vhy 
women  au-  pt  that  orofessio'i — dlscr-iitc'^t  or  stavva 
tion.  I'm  iiot  a  bit  sorr}'  for  the  former — it  shows 
such  a  ladr:  of  ima.dnatio-: — but  for  the  laitcr  I 
ha.'e  nodii.^g  but  dcjp  S3-mpath)'.  Poor,  po  r  J-.ings  ! 
I  tiiiid-;,  I  really  think,  that  if  that  cr  starvation 
stared  me  in   :h  ^  fa-c.  I   should  cheose  starvation. 

''We  En'disii  women,  unlike  vhe  women  o^'  Fraiice 
and  Spaii],  have  no  enter; :r:se.  \v  -.  are  too  .  oncst. 
I  suppose  that's  the  \',ord.  We  feel  bound,  con 
scient'ously — I  thliilc,  rickcui  usK- — to  m-.ke  some 
retursi  f  r  value  reccix'cd.  Scvc^  was  thor:  such 
a     atai    uuriaKo.      ia.:L    u..    ■.  ou   c  n    :  c:  -  -a:>:!    l;)\"._ 


H5am'5  Cla^  155 

nothing,  is  my  motto.  Goodness!  if  that  were 
taught  in  schools,  instead  of  the  sentimentally 
false  doctrine  which  is  imbued  in  tre  minds  of 
young  girls,  there  would  be  no  need  for  asylums 
for  nameless  children,  no  baby-farming  scandals,  no 
piteous  cases  in  tlie  police  courts  of  child  desertion, 
no  '  gentlemen '  who  are  not  required  to  give  their 
names  when  they  arc  summoned  for  alimony.  It  is 
sentimentality  that  is  t!ie  ruin  of  so  m.any  women — 
sentimentality  and  the  utter  lack  of  knov;ledge  of 
man.  We  think,  most  of  us — silly  people,  that  the 
only  way  to  keep  our  lovers  and  our  husljands  under 
cur  roof  is  to  give  th.':m  ail  they  want.  My  dear,  as 
\"0u  of  course  know,  it  is  the  very  best  and  most 
effective  plan  for  driving  them  away.  I^ien  arc  such 
easy  creatures  to  fathom.  Give  tlicm  a  thin-,  they 
take  it,  and  turn  a.way.  Don't  give  it  to  them,  and 
ti.ey  rcj^iain  ]-nceiinr  at  vour  feet  till  the  end  of 
time.  In  the  intervals  of  knc-'ing  they  wid  go 
elsewhcrc,  naturall}' ;  bu':  your  roof  'vill  be  their 
roof^  yr'U  ti'C  one  person  the  world  contains  fov  them. 
I  believe  that  if  ever;  giil  '.\-ere  t'^ught  jus';  tact, 
diplomacy,  self-  res[)c.:t,  und  a  knowle(:g';  of  man, 
women  wfiuld  g(jvcr:i  auvl  teach  the  wcr'd,  a-;d  the. 
w:rld  would  be  l;cttcr  fjr  it.  h\s  it  is.  that  old, 
tooiish,  oisactrous,  Ui'true  rcjL^iuu.-  ;:oe  rsnc  ;.:;-  taugiit, 


156  H&am'6  Cla^ 

'You  mustn't  tamper  with  the  ways  of  Nature/  with 
the  result  we  all  know  too  late.  Tamper  with  the 
ways  of  Nature  !  Bosh  !  Don't  we  punish  people 
for  stealing  and  forging,  and  murdering  and 
smashing  and  assaulting?  And  aren't  they  merely 
obeying  the  dictates  of  Nature?  It  is  Nature  to  be 
uncivilised.  Civilisation  has  come  along  and  made 
all  these  things  criminal.  Why  has  that  07ie  thing 
been  left  outside  the  reach  of  legislation  ?  Shall  I 
tell  you  ?  It's  amusing  and  instructive,  and  has 
made  people  laugh  many  times.  Just  because,  my 
dear  Milly,  the  people  who  made  our  laws  were  male. 
But  we  are  on  the  right  road.  Soon — not  too  soon — 
when  Parliament  gets  into  it  a  few  men  who  are  not 
crushed  down  by  the  spirit  of  '  good  form '  which 
weighs  so  heavily  on  everything  English,  this  matter 
will  be  dealt  v  ith  as  drunkards  have  been  dealt  with, 
and  men  will  be  punished  by  being  taxed  for  every 
superfluous  child  they  bring  lawfully  into  the  world, 
and  sentenced  to  a  term  of  imprisonment  for  every 
child  they  bring  uniawfall}'  into  the  world. 

"  What  a  marked  improvement  there  will  then  be 
in  our  literature,  art,  music,  and  every  kind  of  work 
tliat  depends  on  tlie  individual  brain  of  men.  They 
will  create  then,  in.->tead  oi  imitating  as  they  do  now. 

"'  /Vli,  well,  of  course  you've   heard  all  this  before. 


H5am'0  Cln^s  157 

We  women  have  said  these  things  since '  afternoons ' 
became  an  institution,  and  to  tell  you  the  truth,  even 
were  these  protecting  laws  to  be  made,  we  should,  I 
think,  most  of  us,  break  them  straight  away.  They 
may  make  laws  for  ever,  but  they  will  never  get 
curiosity  and  sentimentality  out  of  our  veins," 


CHAPTER  XIX 

"  I  WENT  to  ti:e  hill — no\r'adays  everything  in- 
teresting lianpens  on  a  liill— like  a  very  girl.  The 
sun  was  deliciously  v/arm  after  yesterday's  storm, 
and  all  the  leaves,  grasses,  trees,  and  hedges  smelt 
sv/eet.  One  felt  tli;it  the  v/ife  of  tlie  cLrk  of  the 
weather  had  made  an  inspection,  found  an  accumu- 
lation of  dust  and  cobwebs  about,  and  had  ordered 
her  servants  to  turn  the  place  out.  Tiie  operation 
was  inconvei;ient ;  the  result  refreshing. 

"  I  danced  out  of  tb.e  cottage  in  the  best  of  tempers 
v/ith  the  world  and  myself.  I  had  every  reason  to 
be.  I  found  that  a  frock  I  had  intended  to  throw 
away  came  out  looking  pretty  nearly  new.  It's  a 
white  muslin,  with  insertions  of  lace  run  through  with 
Cambridge  blue  bab}'- ribbon.  The  sort  of  thing 
they  ahvays  put  the  young  girl  of  the  play  into. 
Whoever  she  may  be,  whether  a  rnonicd  amateur,  or 
a  young  person  from  the  prfA'inces,  she  ahvays  looks 
well   in   it,   however  badly   slie  may  act.     And  how 

badly  these  people  play^is  a  rule.     Is  it  because  they 

15" 


HOam's  (Tla^  159 

are  never  allowed  to  do  what  a  young  girl  off  the 
stage  would  oo  under  similar  circumstances,  but  are 
made  to  go  through  all  the  impossible  tricks  the 
stage  manager  has  stored  up  in  his  head  from  the 
dark  ages?  Personally,  I  know  no  girl,  and  never 
have  known  one,  who  titters  on  to  the  stage  with 
very  tiny  steps,  giggles  v/hi;n  she  gels  there,  kneels 
at  someone's  feet,  crying  :  '  Oh,  do  let  me  do  this,' 
that,  or  the  other,  cries  a  little  for  no  apparant  rer-son, 
smiles  through  iiCr  tear.;,  and  tiicn  tiiLC-is  off  ag<iin 
with  ve.y  tiiiy  steps.  And  yet  on  the  stage  she  is 
the  recognised  young  person,  and  mustalv.^ays  behave 
in  the  saiiie  way.  I'm  a  tremendous  playgoer,  as  you 
know,  and  it  scctus  to  n.e  that  the  reason  five  out 
of  every  six  plays  are  failures  is  simply  owing  to  the 
fact  tlrtt  tnc  parts  are  given  to  poople  because  they 
have  played  similar  parts  before.  For  this  reason, 
hov/ever  original  the  play  really  is,  it  always  saems 
to  be  one  we  have  seen,  it  never  seems  to  be 
new.  This  gre^it  cry  for  personality  wdiich  one  hears 
everywhere  is  the  ruin  of  plays.  After  all,  wJ.at 
is  personalit}',  so  far  as  actors  and  actresses  are 
conccrricd  ?  It  merely  consisis  in  their  having  a 
C,ood  set  of  treth,  or  ban-iy  \Q'^.^i,  or  indistinct 
enurci;l'on,  or  a  monstache  a:  d  an  ey.  glass,  or  r, 
bull    neck   or   a   lisp,  or    calves   in   fnait  of  the   leg. 


i6o  Beam's  Clai? 

That's  all.  And  so,  if  a  girl  is  playing  a  sad  part, 
it  doesn't  matter.  She  has  been  engaged  for  her 
teeth,  and  so  she  smiles.  If  a  man  is  playing  Hamlet, 
he  must  make  no  attempt  to  put  on  false  calves  or 
to  hide  a  horrid  lisp.  Indeed,  I  really  believe,  that 
if  a  man  is  told  by  the  critics  when  he  begins — they 
never  tell  a  man  the  truth  when  he  has  arrived — of 
some  glaring  and  atrocious  fault,  he  seizes  upon  it, 
exaggerates  it,  nurses  it,  works  it  into  every  part 
until,  in  quite  a  short  time,  it  is  no  longer  called  a 
fault  but  a  personality.  I  know  a  man  slightly  who 
writes  plays  who  positively  dreads  them  getting  into 
the  hands  of  actors  and  actresses.  He  says  they  can't 
pronounce  his  words,  and  never  by  any  chance 
understand  the  meaning  of  their  lines.  He  is,  I 
believe,  the  most  successful  playwright  of  the  day,  and 
so  his  word  is  law,  and  all  he  insists  upon  their 
doing  is  merely  committing  his  lines  to  memory,  and 
imitating  his  every  gesture  and  intonation. 

"  Why  is  it,  I  wonder,  that  actors  and  actresses — 
at  least  some  of  them — are  such  hopelessly  unim- 
aginative, uncreative,  unintellectual  people  ?  I  know 
— at  least  I  have  met — quite  a  number  of  them  here 
and  there.  They  are  so  funny.  If  one  gives  them  the 
least  encouragement  tlicy  call  one  pet  names,  or  'dear.' 
And  if  one  asks  them  to  lunch  they  bring  little  bags 


B5am's  Cla^  i6i 

with  changes  of  clothes,  and  call  each  other  '  darling' 
and  'dearest'  across  the  table.  Their  conversation 
never  wanders  from  the  stage,  and  after  they  have 
called  all  the  prominent  and  successful  people  '  fine,' 
*  grand,'  and  '  superb,'  they  set  about  pulling  them 
to  infinitesimal  shreds,  and  wind  up  by  saying  that 
of  course  they  have  mistaken  their  vocation.  So- 
and-So,  who  is  generally  supposed  to  be  the  only 
Hamlet  of  the  day,  ought  to  have  stuck  to  painting, 
they  say.  So  -  and  -  So  —  undoubtedly  a  beautiful 
comedienne  —  would  have  done  better  to  have 
remained  a  general  servant  ;  and  So-and-So — who 
is  recognised  as  the  best  emotional  actor  of  all  time 
— would  have  been  wise  to  have  been  content 
with  'bus  -  conducting.  They  talk  about  '  art  ' 
as  though  it  were  somebody's  chocolate,  or  a 
hair -restorer,  and  by  'art'  they  mean  acting.  Of 
course  acting  isn't  an  art.  It  is  merely  the  habit  of 
being  able  to  repeat  lines  with  correct  emphasis 
without  appearing  to  act.  It  is,  in  short,  mere 
mimicry,  and  most  actors  completely  ruin  the 
characters  they  are  given  to  represent  by  acting. 

"  However,  all  this  has  nothing  to  do  with  my  hill 
or  my  monster.  When  I  arrived,  the  latter  was  on 
the  former,  as  they  say  in  newspapers.  He  was 
standing  up  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  .smiling, 

L 


1 62  Ht)am's  Cla^ 

For  a  moment  I  hardly  recognised  him.  He  looked 
like  the  younger  brother  of  the  John  Ashley  I  had 
met  the  day  before.  All  the  lines  had  gone  out 
of  his  face,  all  the  sternness,  the  aloofness,  the 
underlying  discontent.     He  was  a  great  boy. 

" '  So  glad  you've  come,'  he  said,  turning  to  me 
eagerly.  '  I  began  to  think  you  had  been  carried 
into  the  air  on  the  breeze,  and  borne  away  like  a 
petal !  Will  you  sit  here,  or  here  with  your  back  to 
the  tree  ?  .  .  .  No,  don't  sit  with  your  back  to  the 
tree,  the  moss  will  stain  your  dress.' 

"  I  sat  down  on  the  smooth,  spongy  turf,  and  gave 
one  of  my  best  girlish  laughs, 

" '  You  can't  have  been  waiting  long,'  I  said, 

" '  Long  ?  '  he  cried,  flinging  himself  at  my  feet. 
*  Don't  you  call  a  thousand  million  years  long  ?  ' 

"  He  laughed  as  he  said  it,  but  I  had  a  feeling  that 
a  thousand  million  years  couldn't  have  worked  a 
greater  change  in  his  face  and  his  manner  than 
twelve  hours  had  done. 

"  With  his  elbows  in  the  grass  and  his  chin  in  the 
palms  of  his  brown  hands,  he  lay,  looking  up  at  me 
with  his  eyes  full  of  a  dancing  light.  This  afternoon, 
unlike  yesterday  afternoon,  it  was  he  who  did  all 
the  talking.     I  hardly  said  a  word  for  an  hour. 

"  He  babbled  about  every  conceivable  thing  under 


a^am's  Claii?  163 

heaven,  except  the  things  of  the  moment.  It  was 
all  perfectly  charming.  Sometimes  humorous,  some- 
times fanciful,  always  whimsical,  because  so  utterly, 
almost  impossibly  unworldly.  From  the  few 
questions  I  put  to  him,  I  could  see  that  he  was 
quite  outside  the  movement  of  things.  lie  didn't 
even  know  whether  the  Liberals  or  the  Tories  were 
in  power,  and  cared  less.  It  was  like  the  song  of 
a  thrush,  whose  little  life  had  been  spent  within  a 
whistle  of  its  nest.  And  all  the  time  his  eyes  were 
fixed  on  me  with  a  look  of  such  boyish  adoration 
that  instinctively,  unconsciously,  I  slipped  off  my 
wedding-ring  and  put  it  in  my  pocket, 

"  I  could  see  that  my  methods  with  him  would 
have  to  be  most  guarded  and  careful  ;  that  anything 
that  wasn't  extremely  subtle  and  cunning  would 
tend  to  jar  upon  him.  Like  all  men  who  make 
the  acquaintance  of  the  little  god  late  in  life,  he 
idealised.  I  wasn't  a  v/oman  :  I  was  an  angel.  I 
didn't  stand  on  the  rude  earth  by  his  side.  I  sat 
upon  a  cloud  all  carved  and  picked  out  with  gems. 

"  It  was  all  very  ncv,'-,  very  fascinating.  I  had  had 
no  cxpericn^-c  quite  like  it.  Ail  tlie  boys  I  had 
met  in  my  earliest  }-outh  were  boys  who  were 
cramming  for  the  Army.  And  you  kno;v  the  kind 
of  ijoys  they  are — editions  d:s  luxes  of  worldliness_ 


1 64  at)am's  Clai? 

first  states  of  knowledge.  I  really  wished  as  I  sat 
listening  to  him,  watching  the  enthusiasms  pass  over 
his  face  like  waves,  that  I  could  have  begun  all  over 
again  from  the  beginning,  and  been  something  like 
the  kind  of  thing  he  had  elevated  me  into. 

"  For  three  wonderful  hours  I  was  actually  alone 
with  this  boy -monster,  this  baby -giant,  behaving 
as  any  simple  little  girl  would  have  done.  For 
three  solid  hours  I  was  alone  with  an  untried  man, 
without  experimenting  upon  him  in  the  way  that 
gives  me  such  sheer  delight.  I  made  up  my  mind 
to  try  and  refrain  from  my  usual  practices  ;  to 
abstain,  to  be  just  a  sweet,  laughing,  happy  little 
maiden.  I  made  up  my  mind  to  leave  him  with 
the  remembrance  of  merely  clean  love  in  his  eyes, 
the  delicious,  wholesome  love  with  which  they  were 
filled.  But  that  imp  inside  me  v/illcd  otherwise. 
Heavens !  how  deep-rooted  one's  habits  become. 
...  I  saw  him  glance  quickly  at  me.  I  saw  the 
blood  flood  his  face.  I  saw  a  gleam  come  into 
his  eyes. 

"  I  gained  my  momentary  triumph.  Ikit  I  was 
sorry  immediately.  In  his  case,  it  seemed  sucJi  a 
pity." 


CHAPTER  XX 

The  same  evening,  before  dinner,  a  serious  con- 
sultation took  place  in  the  kitchen  of  Ashley's 
farm,  a  consultation  that  almost  ended  in  a 
quarrel. 

Since  the  sudden  visit  of  the  strange  lady  during 
the  storm,  old  Sloke  had  passed  his  time  shaking 
his  head  gravely,  and  sitting  about  in  the  kitchen 
with  his  hands  spread  out  on  his  knees,  saying 
frequently  to  his  wife  : 

"  Sarey,  Sarey,  what's  afoot ;  Sarey,  what's  afoot  ? " 
His  wife,  whose  romantic  nature,  so  long 
unsatisfied,  had  been  powerfully  stirred  by  the 
sight  of  Betty  Blundeli,  and  who  had  dreamed 
every  night  for  several  nights  of  orange  blossoms 
and  wedding  bells,  and  the  crowing  of  a  baby,  made 
small  of  the  old  man's  ill-omened  grumbling,  and 
laughed  softly  to  herself,  and  hummed  snatches  of 
a  cheerful  hymn  as  she  went  about  her  housework. 
Nevertheless    the   behaviour   of  the    young    master 

weighed   heavily   upon    the    old    man's   mind.     His 

i6s 


1 66  HDam's  Cla^ 

sight  was  failing  him,  and  he  needed  powerful 
glasses  to  enable  him  to  read.  But  even  his  eyes 
were  strong  enough  to  see  the  new  light  in  his 
master's,  even  his  eyes  told  him  that  young 
Ashley's  whole  nature  had  been  thrown  into  a 
condition  of  ecstatic  chaos. 

Old  Sloke  did  not  wonder  at  it. 

'  Her  be  a  rare  pretty  bit,  and  so  her  be/'  he 
said,  "as  would  putt  ony  man  into  a  muck  o* 
sweat,  that  there  be  sartin'.  But  what  Oi  would 
kindly  like  fur  ter  know  are  who  be  her,  an'  wheer 
be  her  coom  from,  an'  what  be  her  a-wantin'  heer  ?  " 

"My  good  feller,  an'  how  should  I  know?" 
replied  Sarah  Sloke,  in  a  tone  and  with  a  nod  of 
the  head  which  conveyed  the  fact  that  she  knew 
very  well. 

The  old  man  read  her  meaning  well  enougli,  and 
his  head  shook  sagely  from  side  to  side,  and  he 
grumbled  as  he  puffed  his  pipe.  He  found  it 
diflicult  to  grumble  and  smoke  at  the  same  time 
owing  to  the  fact  that  he  was  obliged  to  hold  the 
stem  of  his  pipe  between  his  gums,  his  only 
remaining  teeth,  being  at  tl^e  b::ck  on  both  sides 
of  his  jaw.  This,  and  his  wife's  mysteriously 
jocular  manner,  drove  him  to  think  out  some  plan 
of  immediate  action.     An   inspiration  came  to  inm 


just  as  he  was  about  to  settle  down  to  forty  winks 
after  luncheon,  in  his  chair  under  the  apple  tree. 

"Ah!"  he  said  to  himself,  as  he  rose  and 
shuffled  to  the  gate,  setting  his  curious  old  cap  at 
the  correct  village  angle ;  "  Oi  remember.  Oop, 
guards,  an'  at  'em  !  " 

With  an  uneasy  glance  towards  the  house  to 
make  sure  that  his  wife  was  not  watching,  Sloke 
started  out  for  the  village.  The  afternoon  sun 
blazed  down  upon  the  dusty  road  with  a  persist- 
ence and  strength  which  made  it  a  matter  of 
surprise  to  the  burnt,  brown  turf  that  it  did  not 
burst  into  flame. 

Gathering  impetus  as  he  became  less  stiff,  the 
old  man  hurried  up  the  white  road  that  he  had 
covered  so  often  and  knew  so  well,  taking  no 
notice  of  the  farm  fields  to  the  right  and  left. 
As  he  went  he  kept  up  a  mumbling  monologue, 
often  shaking  his  twisted  forefinger,  often  half 
stumbling  over  a  loose  stone.  He  sat  down  for 
a  moment  or  two  on  the  top  of  the  hill  to  get  his 
breath  and  mop  his  forehead  with  the  back  of  his 
hand.  Then,  with  a  dogged  pluck  that  almost 
made  him  break  into  a  jog-trot,  old  Sloke  started 
off  again.  Once  in  the  village,  he  headed  straight 
to    the     cottage     of    Mrs.    Weeks,    acknowledging 


1 68  Beam's  Cla^ 

hastily  the  cheery  salutations  of  Bob  Berridge,  who 
stood  on  the  well-whitened  step  of  the  parlour  of 
the  "Angler." 

He  did  pull  up  for  a  moment  at  the  gate  of  a 
lonely  cottage  covered  with  a  creeper  that  hung 
thickly  over  its  narrow  windows  and  formed  a 
screen  over  the  door.  It  was  here  that  the 
daughter  of  one  of  the  farm  hands;  long  since 
dead  and  buried,  lived — a  once  pretty,  fair-haired 
young  woman  who  had  left  the  village  eleven  years 
before  to  go  into  service  at  the  Doctor's  house  in  the 
town,  and  who  had  returned  to  find  herself  alone 
except  for  a  child  soon  to  be  born  into  a  world  that 
turned  its  head  away.  It  was  in  this  cottage  that 
the  old  master  had  placed  her,  paying  her,  as  the 
young  master  still  continued  to  do,  the  few  shillings 
a  week  sufficient  to  keep  her  body  and  bitter  soul 
together,  and  bring  up  the  little  girl  with  the 
golden  hair  and  blue  eyes,  with  w^hom  no  other 
children  were  permitted  to  play. 

Old  Sloke  caught  sight  of  the  lonely  little  girl 
sitting  in  the  porch,  in  a  blue  pinafore,  v/ith  a 
white  bow  tied  round  a  strand  of  her  hair,  nursing 
a  kitten. 

"  'Ow  be  mother  to-day,  dearie  ?  "  asked  old  Sloke. 

The  little  girl  ran  eagerly  to  the  gate  and   put 


HDam's  Cla^  169 

one  of  her  hands  upon  one  of  the  old  man's 
affectionately. 

"  Not  so  well  to-day,  Mr.  Sloke,"  she  said,  with 
a  tremble  in  her  voice. 

"  Ah,"  said  he  ;  "  Oi  be  fair  sorry  fur  ter  'ear  that, 
dearie.  Mabbe  her'U  be  better  ter-morrer  Oi'll  get 
t'  wold   'ooman  ter  send   along   some  beef-tea  and 

eggs." 

"  Thank  you,  Mr.  Sloke.  May  I  come  to  the 
farm  and  fetch  them,  please  ? " 

"  No,  dearie ;  better  not  coom.  Master  John 
doan't  like  strangers  coomin'  ter  farm." 

'  But  I'm  not  a  stranger,  Mr.  Sloke.  Last  time 
I  saw  Mr.  John  he  tilted  my  straw  hat  over  my 
nose  and  said  '  Hullo,  Baby ! '  It  was  three  years 
ago." 

"  Better  not,  dearie.  I'll  be  fur  sendin'  'em  down 
along  of  the  cart." 

He  touched  the  disappointed  child's  brown  cheek 
with  his  finger,  twisted  his  face  into  a  kind  smile, 
and  passed  up  the  road.  It  always  gave  him  a 
certain  sense  of  importance  to  feel  that  the  farm, 
and  consequently  he  himself,  looked  after  these 
people  who  were  shunned  by  the  rest  of  the 
village.  It  also  gave  him  a  feeling  of  pain  when 
he  saw  the   rapidly-growing,  little   superfluous  girl, 


17°  Hbam's  Cla^ 

with  her  exquisitely  oval  face,  wide,  frank  eyes,  and 
hair  like  ripened  corn,  and  thought  of  how  much 
his  wife  would  have  given  to  call  her  daughter. 
As  it  was,  her  father,  the  Doctor's  son,  who  had 
been  everything  by  turn  and  nothing  long,  and  was 
now  a  jovial  member  of  the  Bechuanaland  Police 
Force,  who  played  the  banjo  and  sang  love-ballads 
like  an  angel,  did  not  even  know  of  her  existence. 
He  could  not  have  put  more  expression  into  his 
songs  if  he  had  known,  and  so,  as  that  is  the  only 
effect  such  knowledge  would  have  had  upon  him, 
perhaps  it  was  as  well.  This  is  the  way  with 
sentimentalists  with  no  sense  of  responsibility  and 
a  huge  dislike  for  suffering.  They  are  splendid 
fathers,  though  extremely  unfaithful  husbands,  and 
always  have  someone  to  put  flowers  upon  their  graves. 

Arrived  at  the  cottage  of  Annie  Weeks,  old  Sloke 
pulled  himself  together  and  walked  with  great 
dignity  and  solemnity  up  the  narrow  path,  bordered 
with  sweet-peas  now  rapidly  running  to  pod,  to  the 
open  front  door. 

Mrs.  W^eks,  with  her  brawny,  energetic  arms  bare, 
as  usual,  was  ironing  some  washing  on  the  kitchen- 
table. 

"  rrUncle,"  she  cried,  with  genuine  pleasure. 
"  This  ]us  a  surprise." 


BDam'9  Cla^  171 

Old  Sloke  took  up  a  position  in  front  of  the 
busy,  cheerful  wonnan,  and  put  the  tips  of  all  his 
finf:^ers  on  the  kitchen-table. 

"  Niece,"  he  said,  "  Oi  be  just  coonn  down  fur  to 
ask  you  who  are  that  theer  young  'ooman  ?  " 

"  Young  woman  !     What  young  woman  ?  " 

The  old  man  tapped  the  table  with  his  fingers. 

"  That  theer  young  'ooman,"  he  replied,  "  that  be 
lodgin'  along  o'  you  nobody  knaws  fur  why." 

Mrs.  Weeks  put  her  hot  iron  on  its  stand  with  a 
bang  and  folded  her  arms. 

"  Young  woman  !  "  she  said  shrilly,  "  I'd  'avs 
you  to  know,  uncle,  as  'ow  that  young  woman  ain't 
a  young  woman.  For  the  matter  of  that  she  ain't 
a  woman  at  all ;  no,  nor  hever  'as  been.  She's  a 
lidy,  an'  you  may  take  it  from  me,  an'  sorry  I  am 
as  'ow  one  of  mine,  as  you  are,  in  a  manner  o' 
speakin',  although  reely  you  are  not,  strictly  and  as 
one  would  say  in  a  court  of  law,  if  one  'ad  the  mis- 
fortunacy  to  be  there,  bein'  only  Alf's  uncle  by 
blood,  and  proud  'e  is  of  it,  and  so  am  I,  but  not 
when  you  misname  folks  as  walks  in  another  and 
'i;;hcr  sp:ar,  as  docs  you  and  yours  no  manner  o' 
'arm,  and  is  never  likely  to  do  the  same." 

Old  Sloke  remained  unmoved  by  the  woman's 
eloquent    outburst.       He    looked    straight     at     her 


172  H&am's  Gla^ 

with  an  added  solemnity,  and  continued  to  drum 
on  the  table  with  his  fingers. 

'Annie  Weeks,"  he  said,  "  Oi  arst  you  onest, 
and  Oi  arst  you  twiyst,  who  be  that  theer  young 
'ooman  as  lodges  in  this  heer  cottage  ? " 

"  An'  Fve  .said  onest,  and  I'll  repeat  it  eighty  times 
eighty,  as  'ow  the  young  woman  as  lodges  'ere  ain't 
a  woman,  and  I  won't  'ave  her  called  so ;  no,  not 
even  by  an  elderly  man  who  I  'ave  a  duty  to,  an' 
am  like  to  'ave,  knowin'  'ow  to  conduct  myself  in  the 
way  I  should  go,  an'  tryin'  to  do  those  things  wot  I 
ought  to  do,  the  same  as  hevery  sinful  body 
would,  bein'  human  an'  frail,  an'  if  I  fall,  to  pick 
myself  up  again  and  turn  the  other  cheek,  an'  so  I 
repeats  to  you,  uncle,  meanin'  no  offence,  but  riskin' 
it,  as  'ow  the  individual  in  question  is  a  lidy,  born, 
bred,  and  unmistakable." 

She  stopped  because  her  breath  ran  short,  and 
stood  facing  the  old  man  with  heaving  bosom. 

"  Oi  doan't  say  as  'ow  her  bean't  a  lidy,"  said  Sloke. 
"Wot  Oi  do  say  are,  lidy  or  no  lidy,  her  be  a  female, 
an'  as  such,  wot  be  her  a-doin'  'angin'  round  after 
I\Iaster  John  ? " 

Mrs.  Weeks  laughed  scornfully, 

"'Angin'  round  after  Master  John?  Well,  if  that 
ain'c  the  best  titbit  as  I've  'card  this  long  time,  with 


Beam's  Cla^  173 

'im  fair  blown  about  'er,  an'  ready  an'  willin'  for  to 
devour  the  ground  she  puts  her  feet  on,  stones  an' 
all,  so  that  it's  the  talk  of  the  place  from  the  '  Scttin' 
Sun '  to  the  '  Cow  and  Calves,'  and  back  by  the  '  Old 
Cock' — yes,  and  makes  no  bones  about  it  'e  don't, 
passin'  'ere  all  times  of  day,  an'  'e  never  was  knowed 
to  afore,  bein'  seen  sittin'  lover-like  at  her  knees  a-top 
of  the  'ill  for  stretches  at  a  time,  yearnin'  unmistak- 
able, so  that  it  were  easy  for  Bessy  Pounds'  boy,  as 
keeps  a  heye  on  Mr.  Petty's  sheep,  to  see  'arf  a  mile 
off,  and  'im  too  young  to  know  nothin'  o'  the  sweets 
and  dangers  of  such  like  intercourse,  an'  then  takin' 
up  a  position  in  front  o'  the  winders  at  all  times  o' 
night,  and  me  as  nervous  as  a  thrush  with  eggs  tliat 
the  blind  were  undrawn  or  a  lamp  atween  my  lidy 
and  the  blind,  same  as  Pve  seen  certain  things  at  the 
fair  on  a  screen  in  the  big  tent,  which  it  is  tuppence 
to  see,  an'  worth  threepence  any  day  as  a  heyc- 
hopener,  but  not  for  the  young,  an'  the  way  they're 
allowed  in  those  places  these  times  fairly  shows  up 
the  school  guardians — " 

Old  Sloke  took  the  opportunity  of  the  Vv-oman's 
inability  to  continue  to  put  in  a  word.  His 
expression  had  changed  from  soiemnity  to  one  of 
consternation. 

"Woa!"  he  cried,  "woa!      Oi'll  be  just  fur  goin' 


174  B&am'5  Cla^ 

over  that  there  bit  agin.  Sittin'  at  'cr  knees  a-top 
o'  the  'ill  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  ever  since  the  storm." 

"  Takin'  oop  a  position  in  front  o'  these  heer 
winders  all  times  o'  night  ? " 

"  Yes  ;  a-sighin'  like  a  man  with  the  indigestyitis." 

There  was  a  long  pause. 

Mrs.  Weeks,  feeling  that  she  had  displayed  all  her 
surprises  with  a  great  eye  for  dramatic  effect,  stood 
back  and  watched  the  old  man  with  an  air  of  natural 
triumph. 

The  old  man,  who  had  become  possessed  of  the 
knowledge  of  a  state  of  things  that  even  he  had 
never  conceived  possible,  withdrew  his  fingers  from 
the  table,  rubbed  his  forehead,  and  breathed  noibily. 

"  Well,"  he  gasped  at  last—"  well,  Oi  be  lagged  !  " 

And  then  came  Mrs.  Weeks's  chance.  She  leaned 
forward  with  the  flush  of  common-sense  on  her 
hot  face,  and  improved  the  occasion  as  only  an 
honest  woman  can. 

"  An'  glad  I  am,"  she  said  heartily,  "  as  it  'as  come 
to  this  at  last  with  Master  John,  being  as  c  is  a  fine 
big  feller  at  the  flower  of  his  man'ood,  with'^ut  a 
known  ccfec',  sound  in  wind  and  limb,  f.  r  1  don't 
'old  with  the  new-far.glcd  notions  of  hold  Mr. 
Hashle}',   not,  as   I   says  often,  as  he  were  hold   as 


a&am's  Cla^  175 

hage  is  calkilated  in  the  Book,  not  by  a  good  ten  to 

fii'icen  year,  time  to  repent  and  more,  and  make  a 
decent  will,  of  astin'  a  man  to  go  through  life  with- 
out the  'and  of  a  wife  to  soothe  and  keep  quiet  and 
do  'er  duty  by  him  at  proper  intervals  of  time  with- 
out a  grumble,  but  proud  to  fill  'is  'ouse  with  young 
feet  and  rosy  cheeks  to  be  a  prop  in  old  age  and  a 
comfort  in  declinin'  years,  as  I  'ave  said  frequent 
when  talkin'  over  poor  young  Master  John  in  bed 
along  of  Alf  when  'e  would  as  lief  'ave  turned  an'  slep, 
wore  out  with  honest  labour — ah,  an'  wished  there 
were  someone  as  would  say  these  things  to  Master 
John  afore  it  were  too  late,  and  put  'im  in  the  way 
of  meetin'  a  nice,  'ealthy  young  person  in  a  good 
position  to  do  it  for  'im,  there  bein'  a  ciuirch  'andy 
with  a  parson  ever  ready  for  wedding  and  burial 
fees,  and  no  wonder,  with  a  livin'  that  ain't  nothin' 
o'  the  kind,  but  a  bread  and  sciape,  and  I  do  'ope  as 
'ow  Master  John'll  have  all  the  luck  as  I  could  wish 
'im  with  the  lidy  as  is  a  }'oung  widder,  accordin'  to 
what  I've  guessed,  and  that  you  and  haunt  will  yet 
live  to  nurse  three  or  four  fine  hinfants  hup  at 
Hashley's  farm,  and  that  I  S3.y,  meanin'  hcvery 
word,  kn'iv.'in'  the  truth  of  t(;e  sa^vte." 

The    old    man    listened    attentive    lo   liis    deadly- 
earnest  niece,  and  slowly  put  on  in's  cap. 


176  a^am's  Clas 

"  You  be  a  fair  good  'ooman,  Annie  Weeks,"  he 
said,  in  a  voice  that  was  not  quite  steady,  "  as  talks 
sense  and  acts  up  to  it.  Oi  should  'ave  nothin'  ter 
say  agin'  it — no,  never  a  word,  but  that  Oi  knaws 
summat  as  no  one  knaws  in  all  this  land  beside 
Master  John,  being  told  by  t'  wold  master  three  days 
afore  'e  left  us,  and  this  is  enough  ter  make  him  turn 
in  'is  grave  under  that  theer  stone.  Beyond  that 
there,  Oi  'ave  nothin'  more  ter  say." 

With  a  quiet  and  pathetic  dignity  that  silenced 
the  garrulous  and  curious  Mrs.  Weeks,  the  old  man 
turned  on  his  heel  and  walked  out  of  the  cottage. 

There  was  no  haste  in  his  walk  as  he  made  his 
way  back  to  the  farm.  He  went  slowly,  with  his 
head  bent  forward.  He  passed  the  cottage  with  its 
heavy  creeper  without  noticing  that  the  little  girl 
stood  at  the  gate  longing  wistfully  for  a  word, 
and  he  passed  the  "  Angler  "  without  hearing  Mr. 
Berridge's  cordial  invitation  to  taste  the  bitter  ale. 
On  he  went  in  the  blazing  sun  through  the  white 
dust,  thinking  sadly  of  the  old  master's  eager  hope 
that  his  son  might  never  fall  in  love  with  a  woman 
with  v/hite  hands  and  silk  dresses  as  he  himself  had 
done  to  his  cost. 

When  he  reached  the  milestone  on  the  top  of  the 
hill,  he  stopped  feebly  for  a  moment  and  looked  down 


Beam's  Cla^  177 

at  the  farm-house  nesth'ng  in  the  hollow  between  the 
trees  and  then  across  the  rolling  fields,  in  the  pink 
of  health  and  cultivation,  in  the  direction  of  the 
little  churchyard,  and  then,  with  a  sudden  straight- 
ening of  his  back,  towards  the  hill  of  which  Mrs. 
Weeks  had  spoken,  which  was  a  continuation  of  the 
one  upon  which  he  stood. 

"  Mabbe,"  he  said  aloud,  "  'twas  all  wumman's 
gossip.  Oi'll  go  over  and  see,  dagged  if  I 
won't ! " 

With  an  amazing  return  of  energy,  born  of  hope, 
he  turned  abruptly  and  left  the  road  and  got  nimbly 
over  the  stile.  He  was  about  to  cross  the  field  in 
which  Ashley's  fly-tortured  cows  were  trying  to  find 
something  succulent  in  the  brown,  parched  grass, 
when  he  caught  the  glint  of  a  blue  sun-bonnet  through 
a  gap  in  the  hedge.  Underneath  it  was  the  wistful, 
oval  face  of  the  little  superfluous  girl. 

"  Be  that  you,  dearie  ? ''  he  sang  out,  struck  with 
a  new  and  curious  thought. 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Sloke,     Do  you  want  me  ?  " 

"  Aye,  dearie.  Joomp  over  t'  stile  and  coom  along 
o'  me  for  a  little  wark." 

In  a  twinkling  the  child  ran  to  the  stile,  mounted 
it,  bounded  through  the  grass  and  caught  up  the 
hand  of  her  old  friend. 

M 


178  Beam's  Cla^ 

"I  followed  you,"  she  said,  "because  I  didn't 
think  you  was  well.' 

"  Oh,  Oi'm  all  right,  dearie ;  but  Oi'm  fair  glad 
you  coom." 

"  Where  shall  we  go,  Mr.  Sloke  ?     To  the  farm  ?  " 

"  Mabbe  we  will.  Arter  all,  thinks  Oi,  you  might 
as  well  take  whome  them  there  dainties  for  your 
poor  mother." 

"  Oh,  thank  you,  Mr.  Sloke,"  cried  the  little  girl, 
dancing  along  at  the  old  man's  side.  "  Which  way 
shall  we  go  ?  " 

"Over  Hog's  back,  dearie.  It'll  be  cooler  under 
the  trees." 

While  the  child  babbled  and  skipped,  the  old  man 
hurried  fa-ward  determined  to  find  out  for  himself 
how  much  of  truth  there  was  in  the  story  he  had 
heard  from  Mrs.  Weeks,  He  knew  of  young 
Ashley's  practice  of  spending  an  hour  on  the  hill 
with  his  books  at  that  time  of  the  day,  and  as  his 
eyes  were  no  longer  sharp  he  would  get  the  child  to 
tell  him  whether  the  master  was  there  alone  or  with 
the  mysterious  woman  who  had  dropped  from  the 
skies.  That  the  child  who  had  been  provided  for  by 
the  father  of  young  Ashley  should  do  this  tiling 
seemed  to  the  old  man  to  be  highly  appropriate. 
And  so,  hand-in-hand,  the  young  G:irl,  so   sweet 


H^am*s  Cln^  179 

and  fresh,  in  the  early  spring  of  her  life,  and  the  old 
man,  so  dried-iip  and  withered,  in  the  late  autumn  of 
his  life,  hurried  along  the  rising  ground  until  they 
came  almost  to  the  top  of  the  ridge  where  stood  the 
group  of  tall  elms  under  whose  protecting  arms 
young  Ashley  was  wont  to  lie ;  the  farm  beneath 
him  on  the  left,  the  village  and  the  churchyard  on 
the  right,  and  beyond  these  on  both  sides  fields  and 
trees,  hills  and  valleys  as  far  as  the  eye  could  sec. 

The  deep  ha — ha — ha — of  a  man  came  suddenly; 
to  old  Sloke's  ears.  He  pulled  the  little  girl  up 
short  and  stood  quite  still,  listening  intently. 

Wonderingly,  the  little  girl  listened  too,  her 
chatter  arrested  by  the  expression  on  her 
companion's  face. 

They  heard  another  light-hearted  laugh,  followed 
by  the  rumble  of  a  man's  voice. 

"Can  you  see  who  it  are,  dearie?"  whispered  Sloke. 

"  No,  Mr.  Sloke  ;  the  tree's  in  the  way." 

"  Do  as  Oi  do,  dearie,  and  say  never  a  word." 

The  old  man  lowered  himself  with  an  effort  on  to 
his  knees  and  started  creeping  on  all  fours  through 
the  undergrowth.  The  little  girl,  suppressing  a 
laugh,  followed  his  example. 

"  Now,  can  ye  see,  dearie  ? "  asked  the  old  man, 
outting  his  lips  close  to  the  child's  ear. 


i8o  H5am's  Cla^ 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Sloke,"  she  said,  in  the  same  tone. 

"  Ah  !  who  be  ut  ?  " 

"  Master  John,  Mr.  Sloke." 

"  Alone  ?  Be  he  alone,  a-talkin'  an'  laughin'  to 
hisself  over  his  book  ? "  The  clear  ripple  of  a 
woman's  laugh  answered  him.  Old  Sloke  bent 
lower.     "  Who  be  that  there  with  Master  John  ?  " 

"  Mrs.  Weeks's  lady,  Mr.  Sloke." 

Old  Sloke  clutched  the  grass  angrily.  "  Wot  be 
she  a-doin',  dearie?"  he  asked. 

"  Sittin'  up,  pullin'  grass,  and  lookin'  down  at 
Master  John." 

"  An'  wheer  be  Master  John,  dearie  ?  " 

"  Lyin'  down,  lookin'  up  into  the  lady's  face." 

Old  Sloke  suppressed  a  groan.  "An'  what  be  his 
face  like,  dearie  ?  " 

"  Like  a  man's  who  is  very  happy,  Mr.  Sloke.  He 
is  smilin',  and  his  eyes  look  like  mother's  do  when 
she  looks  at  me." 

The  old  man  got  up  slowly  and  painfully,  and 
took  the  child's  hand. 

On  the  way  to  the  farm,  he  replied  mechanically 
to  the  many  questions  put  to  him  by  his  little  friend, 
and  when  the  farm  was  reached,  sent  her  into  the 
kitchen  for  the  basket  and  then  sat  down,  tired  and 
spiritless,  in  his  chair  under  the  apple  tree. 


a&am'5  <Ila)5  iSi 

Old  Ashley  had  asked  him  to  see  that  no  woman 
in  rustling  frocks  ever  came  to  the  farm,  and  had 
spoken  of  his  ardent  hope  that  young  Ashley  should 
remain  master  of  his  soul.  Old  Sloke  felt  that  he 
was  responsible  for  the  scene  that  had  been 
described  to  him  by  the  little  girl.  Had  he  not 
been  the  one  to  let  the  woman  into  the  farm  ? 
What  would  the  old  master  say  to  him  when  they 
met  again  ?  Did  he  deserve  to  be  called  a  faithful 
servant  ? 

The  little  superfluous  girl  trotted  up  and  kissed 
him,  and  in  her  old-fashioned  and  pedantic  way 
thanked  him  for  his  kindness. 

He  watched  the  little  slip  of  a  figure  with  the 
long,  thin,  black  legs  and  blue  sun-bonnet  until  it 
went  beyond  his  range  of  sight — not  a  long  range 
these  days — and  then  he  went  to  the  kitchen  and 
gave  his  wife  a  faithful  account  of  all  that  he  had 
heard  and  seen. 

Sarah  Sloke's  face  during  the  recital  flushed  with 
excitement  and  beamed  with  delight. 

"  My  dreams  are  a-comin'  true  ! "  she  cried 
tremulously. 

"  Not  if  Oi  can  help  it,"  said  old  Sloke. 

"  Not  if  you  can  help  it  ?  For  the  dear  Loi  t>" 
sake,  what  do  ye  mean,  man  ?  " 


'82  H^am's  Cla^ 

"  What  Oi  say,  Sarey,"  replied  the  old  man. 
standing  up  to  his  wife  squarely. 

"  But  what's  it  got  to  do  with  you  ?  "  asked  Mrs. 
Sloke  irritably. 

"  Oi  be  responsible  to  t'  wold  master  for  the  boy, 
Sarey,  and  it's  got  a  fair  lot  to  do  wi'  Oi,"  said  the 
old  man,  with  a  glint  in  his  eye  that  Mrs.  Sloke  had 
not  seen  there  often. 

But  like  a  true  woman,  she  held  a  brief  for  Love 
and  all  that  it  entails. 

"If  young  Master  John  be  a-goin'  for  to  mate," 
she  said,  '■  all  as  we've  got  to  do  is  to  see  that  the 
nest  is  a-ready  for  'im." 

The  old  man's  lips  trembled  with  anger,  and  he 
brought  his  hand  down  with  a  bang  on  the  table. 

"  Wife,"  he  said,  "  don't  never  let  Oi  heer  ye  say 
such  things  again — never  !  If  ye  'ave  any  respect 
for  the  memory  and  the  wishes  of  t'  wold  master, 
ye'll  tlo  the  best  that's  in  j^e  to  prevent  Master  John 
makin'  a  fule  o'  hissclf  wi'  this  'ere  'ooman  as  no  one 
knaws  nothink  about.  Oi  knaw  my  clooty,  at  any 
rate,  and  Oi  shall  speak  to  'im  sharp  this  night." 

He  turned  on  his  heel  and  left  the  kitchen,  leaving 
his  old  and  faithful  '\irc  in  tears.  These  were  the 
first  angry  word,-,  the  oid  man  iiau  ever  spukcu  to 
her. 


H^am'5  Clap  183 

Sloke  stumped  down  to  the  white  gate  and  waited 
for  young  Ashley  to  return.  He  did  not  have  to 
wait  long. 

The  sun  was  setting.  The  swallows,  in  high 
spirits,  flew  shrieking  round  the  house.  A  bat 
made  an  early  appearance  and  performed  a  series  of 
erratic  movements  among  the  pollards.  Shadows 
lengthened  as  the  West  paid  homage  to  the 
Sovereign,  and  it  seemed  to  old  Sloke  as  he  watched 
Nature's  great  amp  de  theatre,  that  the  clouds 
formed  themselves  into  a  guard  of  honour.  The 
sky,  which  had  been  splashed  with  the  most  gorgeous 
tints,  took  on  a  deeper  tone,  and  as  the  old  man  heard 
)  oung  Ashley's  quick  steps  on  the  road,  became 
blood-coloured. 

Young  Ashley  was  singing  as  he  came  up  the 
road.  His  head  was  flung  back  and  his  arms  were 
su-inging,  and  lie  walked  on  the  tips  of  his  toes.  He 
did  not  wait  to  open  the  gate.  Putting  one  hand  on 
the  top  bar  he  vaulted  it  and  ran  up  the  path  to  the 
house. 

"  Dinner  as  bOon  as  you  like,  old  man,"  he  sang 
out,  ;ind  took  the  slairs  to  his  Ledioom  tlircc  at  a 
time. 

ijeforc  dinner  was  cleared,  young  Ashley  caught 
up  his  cap  and   went  quickl}'  to  the  door. 


1 84  aoain's  dia^ 

"  Be  ye  goin'  out  again,  master  ? "  asked  Sloke 
anxiously. 

"Yes,"  said  Ashley. 

"  Doan't  'ee  go,  master.     Doan't  'ee." 

The  strangeness  and  the  earnestness  of  the  appeal 
twisted  young  Ashley  round. 

"  Why  not  ?  "  he  asked. 

So  agitated  that  he  could  barely  frame  his 
sentences,  the  old  man  stepped  forward. 

"  Oh,  Master  John,  this  'ooman  .  .  .  wi'  the  white 
fingers  ...  as  coom  so  sudden  .  .  .  doan't  'ee, 
doan't  'ee  .  .  .  for  your  father's  sake,  as  is  gone  to 
rest.  .  .  ." 

"  Father  knows,"  cried  young  Ashley.  "  Sloke, 
old  man,  I  have  told  father.  You  won't  understand 
me,  but  I  have.  He  has  let  me  off  my  promise, 
because  every  woman  isn't  alike.  And  this  one  .  .  . 
this  one.  ..." 

A  gesture  finished  his  sentence,  a  gesture  that 
conveyed  love  and  admiration  and  reverence  too 
immense  for  mere  words. 

And  then  young  Ashley  caught  up  the  hand  of 
the  old  man,  and  laughed  with  a  catch  in  his 
voice  as  he  shook  it. 

"  Wish  me  luck,"  he  said.  "  I  am  going  to  be  the 
happiest  man  on  earth." 


part  III 
THE    BLAZE 


CHAPTER   I 

Evelyn  Blundell  was  the  kind  of  man  men  call 

"  a  f^jood  chap,"  and  women  "  a  dear." 

Justly  so  as  men   go.     He  lied  as  often   but  not 

more  often  than  any  of  us.     He  played  an  excellent 

game  of  Tiridge,  and  parted  with  money  he  couldn't 

afford  to  lose  with  invariable  cheerfulness.     He  took 

chaff  quite  as  well  as  he  gave  it,  grumbled  continually 

at  his  profession,  and  when  he  mugged  up  his  work, 

he  did  so  secretly,  and  was  entirely  devoid  of  buck. 

Like     a    healthy-minded     Englishman,    he    roundly 

cursed    whichever    party    was    in    power,   and    was 

willing,  at  any  time,  to  te.ich  any  Cabinet  Minister 

his  job,  whether  it  had  to  do  with  a  subject  of  which 

he,  Blundell,  knew   nothing  or  not.     Like   most  of 

us,  he  was  an  expert  only   in  those  things  of  which 

he    knew    nothing.       His    temper  was    like    a  large 

check  in    Harris  tweed — violent,  but  quite  ordinary 

when  you  get  usetl  to  it.     He  had  an  infinite  capacity 

for  martyrdom,  and  could  draw  generously  upon  a 

reserve   land  of  sentime.jt.dity  at  'dny  mou:ent.     To 

187 


i88  a&am's  Cla^ 

look  at,  he  was  no  different  from  ninety-nine  men 
out  of  a  hundred — men,  I  mean,  of  some  breeding, 
decently  educated.  He  had  a  fairly  steady,  fairly 
clean  eye,  plenty  of  hair  of  a  reddish  tinge,  crisp, 
and  inclined  to  kink ;  a  straight,  thin  nose,  with 
well-cut  nostrils  ;  a  short  upper  lip,  a  surly  mouth, 
and  a  square-cut  chin,  which  showed  some  pig- 
headedness,  but  very  little  strength. 

Being  thoroughly,  soundly  English — the  Blundells 
dwelt  in  Kent  ages  before  the  Canterbury  Pilgrims 
lowered  the  tone  of  the  county — he  possessed  a 
keen  sense  of  the  ridiculous,  but  no  sense  of  humour, 
and  he  was  lucky  enough  to  be  able  to  cod  himself — 
to  use  an  excellent  colloquialism — that  whatever  he 
did,  however  low,  foolish,  or  mean,  was  done  from 
motives  in  which  neither  of  these  three  things  found 
a  place.  He  was  no  more  sensual  than  any  other 
healthy-minded  man,  and  no  less.  He  was,  at  the 
same  time,  just  as  selfish,  and  there  was  no  man  on 
earth  with  whom  he  got  on  better,  or  appreciated  more, 
than  Evelyn  Blundcll.  His  moral  sense  was  sound. 
Not  for  a  moment,  however  keen  tlic  temptation, 
would  he  have  rendered  any  straight  girl  the  worse 
for  knowing  him.  Not  for  a  moment,  however  strong 
the  invitation,  would  he  have  tamuered  with  the  wife 
of  a  friend.      With  ihe  wife  of  a  man  with  whom  he 


H^am*5  cia^  189 

was  not  on  terms  of  friendship,  it  was,  of  course,  a 
totally  different  matter.  In  that  he  was  a  sailor,  and 
consequently  away  from  his  wife  for  long  periods  of 
time,  he  regarded  himself  as  exempted  from  a  too 
nice  faithfulness. 

On  his  training  ship,  Evelyn  Blundell  had  been 
vastly  popular.  His  naturally  loud  voice  and  self- 
assertive  manner  were  mistaken  for  authority  and 
strength.  He  had  very  genuine  pluck,  and  threw 
himself  heart  and  soul  into  work  as  well  as  into  play. 

Being  the  son  of  a  poor  parson,  it  goes  without 
saying  that  entertaining  was  a  pastime  in  which 
he  never  indulged.  He  had,  however,  the  invaluable 
power  of  being  able  to  accept  hospitality  and  even 
gifts  as  though  he  were  bestowing  a  favour.  His 
selfishness  was  frank  and  unmistakable.  There  was 
nothing  underhand  about  it.  His  companions  either 
accepted  him  at  his  own  valuation,  or  they  were 
regarded  by  him  as  not  being  alive,  except  as 
butts  for  his  rather  clumsy  sarcasm.  What  he 
didn't  know  was  not  worth  knowing.  He  was 
never  vicious,  nor  did  he  at  any  time,  and  on  any 
excuse,  tolerate  low  conversation.  He  swore  soundly 
when  occasion  demanded  it,  but  refused  to 
punctuate  ordinary  small  -  talk  with  oaths.  He 
was,   however,  a    man    very  early  in    life.     He    had 


19°  S^am*s  Cla^ 

his  affairs  of  the  heart,  in  which  the  heart  was 
altogether  on  the  other  side.  His  taste  lay  in  the 
direction  of  barmaids  and  shop-girls,  by  whom  he 
was  regarded  as  "  quite  the  gentleman,"  and  it  was 
no  extraordinary  thing  for  him,  after  he  had  been 
some  time  in  the  Navy,  to  spend  some  portion  of 
his  leave  at  a  second-rate  London  hotel  e/i  famillc. 
He  did  it  as  well  as  he  could  afford  in  the  most 
gentleman-like,  unostentatious  manner,  keeping  well 
out  of  the  radius  of  his  own  set.  He  prided  him- 
self on  always  plaj'ing  the  game  according  to  the 
rules  in  fashion  at  the  time,  and  he  paid  his  way 
honestly  to  the  best  of  his  ability.  Being  soundly, 
thoroughly  English,  he  hunted  when  anyone  offered 
him  a  mount,  and,  at  all  times,  never  lost  an 
opportunity.  As  became  the  son  of  a  clergyman, 
he  had  certain  religious  views,  and  acted  up  to 
them,  so  lorig  as  they  didi;'t  interfere  too  much 
with  personal  comfort.  He  was  distinctly  ambitious, 
and,  being  well  aware  that  there  was  no  royal 
ro  id  to  success  for  men  in  liis  position  and  with 
his  sound  but  modest  connections,  v/orked  hard. 
He  was  often  heard  to  say  that  it  would  not  be 
his  fault  if  he  did  not  climb  to  the  top  of  the  tree. 
He  never  worked  late  at  niglit.  He  re.;arded  sleep 
as    a    necessity.     He    mapped    out    his    day    with 


seam's  Clap  191 

method  instead.  He  had  a  natural  liking  for  red- 
tape,  and  was  a  great  stickler  as  to  etiquette  and 
form,  and,  having  come  to  the  conclusion  that  it 
was  extremely  wise  to  be  popular  with  his  superior 
officers,  took  good  care  never  to  be  heard  to 
grumble.  He  frequently  did  grumble,  but  only 
into  the  ear  of  a  contemporary,  in  whom  he  placed 
implicit  trust. 

He  did  not  look  upon  his  having  fallen  in  love 
with  and  become  engaged  to  Betty  as  a  false  step 
likely  to  retard  his  advancement.  After  all,  she 
was  an  extremely  beautiful  girl,  who  belonged  to 
a  highly  respectable  family.  But  he  did  consider, 
ill  his  most  secret  moments,  that  he  had  allowed 
himself  to  be  rushed  into  marriage  rather  too  early 
in  his  career.  He  was,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  not 
quite  sure  that  the  kudos  of  being  engaged  to  a 
girl  so  remarkably  pretty  as  Betty  was  not 
sufficient.  Nevertheless,  having  married  her  during 
the  one  impetuous  and  uncalculating  moment  of 
his  life,  he  had  played  the  game.  He  had  put  her 
into  a  flat  that  was  well  within  his  means,  and 
made  her  a  proper  and  adequate  allowance  upon 
which  to  keep  up  appearances.  He  had  thoroughly 
enjoyed  his  honeymoon,  took  great  pleasure  in 
introducing    his   wife    to   his   particular   friends,   and 


192  Beam's  Cla^ 

when  he  joined  the  China  squadron,  left  behind 
with  his  bankers  full  and  complete  instructions  as 
to  his  wife's  allowance,  and  much  wisdom  and 
common-sense  with  his  wife.  Durinfr  his  absence 
he  wrote  to  Mrs.  Blundell  once  a  week — every 
Sunday  afternoon.  His  letters  were  models  of 
domestic  epistles.  He  gave  a  full  and  detailed 
account  of  just  so  much  as  he  considered  necessary 
of  the  doings  of  the  previous  week,  and  never  failed 
to  request  his  wife  to  live  well  within  the  allowance 
he  made  her,  and  to  make  nice  friends  only. 

Naturally,  being  a  thoroughly  sound  Englishman, 
he  never  missed  a  safe  opportunity  of  enjoying 
himself  during  his  long  absence  from  his  wife, 
and  when,  finally,  the  time  came  for  him  to  return 
home  on  leave,  he  did  so  with  the  esteem  of  his 
chiefs,  the  sincere  regard  of  his  brother  officers,  and 
the  certain  knowledge  of  promotion  to  a  better 
station.  It  need  hardly  be  added  that  he  had 
saved  money,  and  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing 
quite  a  respectable  balance  in  his  pass-book. 
In  short,  it  is  easy  to  claim  for  him  the  right  to 
be  called  "a  good  chap"  by  men,  and  a  "dear" 
by  women. 

As  he  neared  the  end  of  his  homeward  voyage, 
and    read   the  bright,  loving,   trusting,  eager  letters 


Beam's  Cla^  193 

of  the  little  woman  who  was  his  wife,  written  from 
the  little  village  in  which  she  was  counting  the 
minutes  that  brought  him  nearer,  all  the  sentiment- 
ality, all  the  desire  to  make  a  martyr  of  himself, 
bubbled  up  and  stirred  what  was  best  in  his  nature. 
He  read  the  artless,  affectionate  letters  with  tingling 
cheeks  and  dim  eyes,  and,  casting  them  back  over 
the  three  years'  separation,  called  himself,  without 
really  believing  the  things  he  said,  blackguard  and 
beast,  and  other  exaggerated  terms  of  abuse,  because 
he  thought  it  was  the  right  thing  to  do.  Implicitly 
believing  that  every  word  she  wrote  was  true — was 
she  not  the  woman  he  had  married  ? — he  worked 
himself  into  the  not  altogether  unenjoyable  belief 
that  he  was  unworthy  to  black  the  little  shoes 
in  which  she  stood. 

The  beauty  of  the  nights,  the  sentimental  songs 
of  the  sailors,  the  "  England,  home,  and  mother " 
feeling  that  infected  every  man  on  board,  had 
naturally  something  to  do  with  it.  However  that 
may  be,  he  continually  found  himself — and  revelled 
in  the  discovery — standing  apart  from  his  brothers, 
chewing  the  cud,  between  the  whiffs  of  his  cigar, 
of  bitterness  and  shame.  He  found  himself  lying 
awake  at  night  and  going  without  his  usual  amount 
of  liquor. 


194  H^anVs  Gla^ 

"  Poor  little  ^irl,"  he  repeated  to  himself  over  and 
over  again,  looking  at  his  wife's  photograph  in  the 
moonlight ;  "  poor  little  girl,  how  she  loves  me ! 
What  kind  of  man  am  I  that  she  should  adore 
me  as  she  does  ?  The  three  years  I  have  been 
away  must  have  appeared  six  to  her.  Yet  to 
me  ...  it  seems  only  yesterday.  .  .  .  I've  put  in 
an  excellent  time  too,  done  myself  top-hole.  What 
am  I  to  say  to  her — a  little  woman  so  white,  so 
pure,  so  faithful  ?  It's  all  rot  to  suppose  that 
because  I've  not  been  particular  she  ought  not 
to  have  been.  I  am  only  a  man,  whereas  she's 
my  wife.  But  I  rather  wish  .  .  .  Oh,  Lord  !  That's 
the  worst  of  this  beastly  service.  What's  a  man 
to  do  ?  Poor  little  girl,  poor  little  girl  !  .  .  .  What 
a  rum  thing  it  all  is.  If  she'd  done  an  eighth  part 
of  what  I  have,  I  should  never  live  with  her  again. 
It's  rough  luck  .  .  .  but  there  it  is." 


CHAPTER  II 

Two    telegrams    were    handed    to    Blundell   when 
H.M.S.  Gargantua  put  in.     They  ran  as  follows  : 

"  Welcome  a  thousand  times.  "  Betty." 

And: 

"  Welcome  ;  come  at  once.  "  MiLLY." 

The  first,  which  he  had  expected,  gave  him  very 
little  pleasure  for  that  reason. 

The  second,  totally  unexpected,  sent  his  heart 
beating  half-a-dozen  strokes  faster  to  the  minute. 

Before  he  got  into  the  train  for  London,  he  v/ired 
answers  to  them  both.     To  the  first : 

"  Safe  and  sound.  Dying  to  see.  Business  keeps 
me  to-morrow  London.     With  you  day  after. 

"  Evelyn." 

And  to  the  second  : 

"  Thousand  thanks.     With  you  to-morrow  lunch. 

"  Evelyn." 
195 


196  B^am'5  Clai? 

"  Come  at  once — Milly/'  he  said  to  himself,  as  the 
train  started.     "  What  on  earth  .  .  ." 

Much  against  his  will  a  smile  crept  over  his 
face,  and  he  fingered  the  telegram  with  a  sense  of 
pleasurable  excitement. 

"  Surely  a  little  indiscreet  ?  Milly's  taken  the  flat, 
by  a  deuced  curious  coincidence,  and,  I  expect, 
knows  that  Betty  is  in  the  country  pining  to  see 
me.  It  must  be  something  very  urgent  to  make 
her  ask  me  to  go  at  once  when  one's  wife  .  .  . 
Illness,  I  should  think.  Or  else  something  has 
leaked  out.  .  .  Good  God  !  I  hope  not.  It  would 
never  do  just  at  this  moment." 

He  said  these  things  tragically  enough  ;  but  the 
smile  remained. 

"  Of  course,  past  or  no  past,  I  couldn't  possibly 
refuse  to  lunch  with  her.  In  a  sense — in  fact,  of 
course — it's  business.  I  hate  lying !  No  doubt 
something's  gone  wrong  with  the  flat,  and  I  am 
wanted  to  see  about  it.  My  own  sweet  little  Betty. 
.  .  .  (Come  at  once — Milly.)  .  .  .  Boor  little  girl  ! 
How  glad  she'll  be  to  get  me  back  again  after  all 
these  years.  (Come  at  once — ^Milly.)  I  wonder  if 
she's  changed  at  all.  She's  quite  a  little  woman 
now.  What  a  heap  we  shall  have  to  talk  about. 
(Come  at  once — Milly.)     Miles  from  the  station,  eh  ? 


a&am'5  Cla^  197 

That's  it.  And  no  sea  in  sight.  Beastly  sea,  how  I 
loathe  it !  (Come  at  once — Milly.)  It  makes  me 
sick  to  think  that  I  shan't  be  able  to  look  her  fair 
and  square  in  the  eyes,  I  wonder  if  any  of  the 
others  would  suffer  as  I  do  under  these  circum- 
stances. They've  put  in  a  jolly  sight  better  time — 
I  mean,  been  very  much  worse — than  I  have  during 
these  three  years.  (Come  at  once — Milly.)  I  sup- 
pose I  am  a  bit  too  sensitive.  I  suppose  there  are 
not  a  dozen  men  in  the  service  who  would  under- 
stand the  horrible  shame  I  feel.  (Come  at  once — 
Milly.)  Gad  !  I  wish  I'd  run  on  the  straight.  She 
has  all  my  love,  though.  No  one  has  ever  or  can 
ever  share  that  with  her.  (Come  at  once — Milly.) 
The  darling  !  What  wonderful  hair  she's  got.  And 
how  exquisitely  beautiful  and  refined  and  dainty  she 
is.  (Come  at  once — Milly.)  It's  a  great  nuisance 
not  being  able  to  dash  off  to  her  to-night.  I  do 
think  that  Milly  .  .  ,  However,  poor  old  Mill, 
perhaps  I  can  help  her  She's  in  trouble.  One 
couldn't  possibly  be  hard-hearted  enough  to  pay  no 
attention  to  such  a  telegram  as  that.  (Come  at 
once — Tvlilly.)  And  I  have  been  looking  forward 
all  these  years  to  seeing  Betty  directly  I  landed. 
I  wonder  what's  goin'  on  in  town?  By  Gad!  I'll 
give  myself  a  ripping  little  dinner — change  of  diet 


1 98  HDanVs  Clap 

will  do  me  good — and  do  a  theatre  or  a  music  hall. 
Something  bright  with  some  good  swinging  songs 
will  help  to  drive  away  the  fearful  hump  staying 
au-ay  from  Betty  will  give  me.  (Come  at  once — 
Milly.)  I  don't  think  I've  ever  been  so  down  on 
my  luck  in  my  life.  A  music  hall,  I  think,  and  I'll 
see  if  I  can't  find  a  pal.  Might  possibly  diop  into 
supper  at  the  Continental  afterwards.  Must  do 
something  to  buck  myself  up.  After  all,  what  have 
I  ever  done  that  everyone  else  doesn't  do  ?  (Come 
at  once — Milly.)  Dearest  little  wife.  Wife!  What  a 
lovely  word  it  is.  The  most  perfect,  the  most  pregnant 
with  meaning  in  the  whole  English  language.  (Come 
at  once — Milly.)  Country's  looking  nice,  by  Gad! 
Glorious  place  England,  although  it's  so  frightfully 
effete.  Heavens  !  to  get  to  town  once  more,  and  hear 
the  old  famiiliar  roar,  I'm  looking  forward  like  a 
kid  to  getting  inside  a  hansom  again  !  (Come  at 
once — Milly.)  Although,  of  course,  I'm  frightfully 
sick  at  being  prevented  like  this  from  steaming  down 
to  Betty.  My  sweetheart !  My  own  little  wife ! 
(Come  at  once — Milly).  What  a  funny  thing  it  was 
—  Cator  dying  two  weeks  after  Betty  and  I  were 
married.  I  wonder  if  I  should  have  married  Milly 
if  I  hadn't  met  Betty  ?  She  got  all  poor  old  Cator's 
money.     Not  enough  to  roll  in,  but  a  jolly  useful 


Beam's  Cla^  199 

bit.  I  don't  suppose  I  should,  though.  Men  never 
marry  the  women  they  .  .  .  and  yet,  she's  a  good 
sort.  It  was  all  because  Cator  was  such  a  brute. 
She  couldn't  do  without  sympathy.  The  world  would 
think  pretty  badly  of  us,  I  suppose.  But  it  could 
never  understand  the  feeling  that  inspired  me.  It 
was  wrong,  of  course,  but  at  least  it  gave  her  an 
interest  in  life — and  nobody  ever  found  out.  How 
hard  the  world  is  on  a  woman  who  goes  a  bit  off 
the  straight.  Brutes  !  But  I'm  glad  I  was  safely 
married."     (Come  at  once — Milly.) 

Blundell  took  his  wife's  photograph  out  of  his 
breast  pocket,  and  sat  looking  at  it  in  a  wistful  way 
for  a  long  time.  Many  miles,  many  little  farms 
tucked  away  in  the  creases  of  the  hills,  many  golden 
fields  of  still  corn,  many  hedges  loaded  with  leaf, 
many  villages  bustling  lazily,  fell  behind — the  engine 
beating  out  a  refrain  to  which  "Come  at  once — 
Milly"  fitted  in  constantly — before  he  found  that 
he  was  looking  at  the  photograph  upside  down.  He 
whisked  it  round  quickly,  with  a  slight  addition  to 
his  colour,  kissed  it,  and  put  it  back  in  his  pocket. 
(Come  at  once — Milly.) 

Sighing  heavily,  he  shook  open  a  paper  and  ran 
his  eye  down  the  entertainment  advertisements. 
(Come  at  once — Milly.) 


200  B&ain's  Gla^ 

"  A  romantic  drama  in  four  acts,"  he  read. 
"  Armour,  cymbals,  silly  fights.  No  thanks.  A  new 
and  original  farce  in  three.  The  new  and  original 
references  to  mother-in-laws  and  twins  that  I  heard 
in  my  childhood.  Not  at  any  price.  Not  even  on 
paper.  Shakespeare.  Never  can  hear  what  they're 
saying.  No.  Empire  Ballet.  Genee.  .  .  .  That's 
good  enough!  And  one  needn't  put  in  an  appearance 
before  ten.  Wish  Betty  were  in  town.  How  ripping 
to  go  together.  I  hate  enjoying  myself  alone.  Not 
that  I  shall  Qn]oy  it.  I  feci  much  too  .  .  .  sick  with 
myself  .  .  ."  (Come  at  once — Milly.) 


CHAPTER  III 

As  his  hansom  cleared  the  station-yard  and  made 
its  way  into  the  street,  Blundell  forgot  both  women 
— his  wife  and  the  other.  London  leapt  up  in  front 
of  him.  London — with  its  peculiar  smell,  its  peculiar 
noises,  its  peculiar  buildings,  its  peculiar  traffic,  its 
peculiar  sameness — the  ugliest,  worse-kept,  worse- 
swept,  narrowest,  most  interesting  city  in  the  world. 

It  was  half-past  six  in  the  evening.  There  was 
no  wind,  no  breeze.  The  air  which  had  been  churned 
over  and  over  during  the  day  was  dead  and  thick. 
The  pavements  were  black  with  tired,  spiritless 
people  making  their  way  home  after  work.  'Buses, 
loaded  on  top,  crawled  in  long  lines  up  and  down 
the  congested  streets.  Shrill  -  voiced  papers  boys 
shouted  the  latest  winner,  the  insistent  bells  of  motor 
cars  rang  sharply,  and  the  never-ending  crunching 
of  wheels,  the  shuffling  of  thousands  of  feet,  filled 
Blundell's  ears  like  a  familiar  song. 

As  he  approached  Northumberland  Avenue,  and 
the  Metropole,  the  sharp  note  of  a  coach-horn  made 


202  Beam's  Clap 

him  lean  forward  eagerly,  and  a  peal  of  the  bells  of 
St.  Martin's  brought  a  tightness  to  his  throat. 

He  felt,  as  most  of  us  have  felt  under  similar 
conditions,  that  it  was  worth  while  to  go  away  from 
London  for  three  years  in  order  to  plunge  back  into 
it  again.  Its  very  ugliness  impressed  him.  Its  very 
narrowness  struck  him  as  curiously  homely.  Beyond 
a  new  building  here  and  there,  or  an  old  one  renovated 
and  cleaned,  everything  was  the  same.  The  sounds 
were  the  same,  the  people  were  the  same,  the  very 
smell  was  the  same.  He  noticed  with  surprise  and 
a  touch  of  insular  annoyance,  a  new  smell,  a  smell 
with  which  he  was  quite  unfamiliar.  It  was  a  thick, 
oily  smell,  that  hit  the  back  of  his  throat  and  made 
him  cough,  a  smell  that  filled  him  with  a  sense  of 
physical  sickness.  He  looked  angrily  about  him  to 
see  from  where  it  came,  and  noticed  that  it  was 
accompanied  by  a  blue  smoke.  Suddenly  there  was 
a  roar  and  a  sound  as  though  a  thousand  rusty 
chains  had  been  raised  by  a  tremendously  powerful 
magnet  and  led,  helter  -  skelter,  across  an  acre  of 
flints.  With  amazement,  Blundeil  gazed  at  a  long, 
hideous,  blatant  machine,  guided  by  a  damned  soul 
wearing  oil-skins  and  an  impertinent  expression.  It 
was  covered  with  bills  announcing  that  Edna  May 
was  presented  by  Charles  Frohman  in   The  Belle  of 


HDam'5  Clap  203 

Mayfair  every  evening  at  8.15.  And  Blundell 
knew. 

As  he  passed  rapidly  along  to  his  hotel,  London 
got  into  his  blood,  and  he  felt  an  overwhelming 
desire — the  desire  that  fills  every  man  who  has 
known  it  well,  and  been  away  from  it  for  some  time 
— to  become  one  of  the  great  crowd  again. 

With  a  sense  of  home  upon  him,  a  curious,  warm 
exhilaration,  he  paid  off  the  cab,  booked  a  room, 
left  his  luggage  with  the  hotel  porters,  washed 
hastily,  and  made  his  way  into  the  street. 

The  day  had  been  very  hot.  The  sun,  still  warm, 
touched  the  tops  of  the  buildings  with  a  thin  finger 
of  gold,  and  made  all  the  higher  windows  look  as 
though  they  were  on  fire.  He  saluted  in  a  shamefaced, 
sudden,  self-conscious  manner  as  he  passed  under 
the  ineffably  inadequate  statue  of  Nelson,  and  made 
his  way  to  the  Haymarket. 

He  threw  a  shilling  to  a  crossing-sweeper  whose 
face  he  recognised,  and  stopped  for  a  moment  to 
read  the  bill  outs'de  the  Haymarket  Theatre.  He 
went  into  the  old-fashioned  shop  at  the  top  of  the 
street  to  get  some  cigarettes,  and  smoking  one  with 
rare  enjoyment — they  were  no  better  than  the  ones 
with  which  his  case  was  filled,  but  they  were  the 
ones  he  used  to  smoke — swung  on  quickly  to  his 
club  in  Piccadilly. 


204  HOam'5  Cla^ 

The  porter  looked  up  from  a  halfpenny  racing 
paper  and  said,  "  Good  evening,  sir."  A  member 
who  had  lunched  with  him  the  day  before  he  went 
away,  three  years  ago,  gave  him  a  "  How  do  ? "  as 
though  he  had  seen  him  a  few  hours  before.  The 
waiter  in  the  smoking-room  answered  his  "  Good 
evening"  politely,  uninterestedly,  and  brought  him 
a  whisky-and-soda. 

There  were  the  same  faces,  the  same  pictures, 
the  same  papers,  containing  pretty  much  the  same 
matter.  Nothing  had  altered.  Everything  was 
the  same. 

In  ten  minutes  it  seemed  ridiculous,  impossible 
that  he  had  been  away  three  years.  Three  days 
seemed  nearer  the  mark,  or  three  minutes.  With 
a  curious,  uncomfortable  feeling  he  went  into  the 
billiard-room.  The  two  men  who  had  been 
playing  when  he  left  were  playing  still.  He 
would  have  sworn  that  both  were  dressed  in  exactly 
the  same  clothes. 

He  sat  down  and  tried  to  imagine  that  he  had 
really  been  on  China  seas.  He  tried  to  recall  the 
sounds,  the  scents.  He  couldn't.  He  tried  to 
remember  the  sing-songs  on  board  under  the  deep 
sky  in  the  moonlight.     He  couldn't. 

"it's  a  dream,"  he  said   to  himself     "  Ive    been 


H^atn'5  Cla^  205 

lunching  at  the  Berkeley,  and  have  been  to  sleep 
for  a  couple  of  hours." 

His  cigarette  went  out,  and  he  dived  into  his 
pocket  for  his  match-box.  He  felt  two  pieces  of 
thin  paper.  With  some  surprise  he  pulled  them 
out.  They  were  telegrams.  One  was  signed 
"  Betty "  ;  the  other  "  Milly."  He  read  them  with 
interest.  "  Queer,"  he  thought.  "  Why  do  they 
say  'welcome'  and  want  me  to  go  at  once,  as 
though  I  had  been  away?  I  saw  them  both  a 
few  hours  ago." 

Then  he  shook  himself  and  laughed. 

"  Ye  gods,"  he  said,  under  his  breath,  "  what  a 
quaint  city  it  is.  I  believe  they  wash  the  streets 
down  every  morning  with  the  waters  of  Lethe ! " 


CHAPTER  IV 

Forgetting  that  he  was  in  an  English  club— a 
London  club,  one  of  whose  Honorary  Presidents 
was  a  kind  of  Royal  Duke — Blundell  had  been 
guilty  of  laughing  aloud  in  the  billiard-room. 

His  absence  from  home,  the  free-and-easy  fellow- 
ship of  the  Navy,  had  naturally  done  something  to 
round  the  fine  edge  of  civilised  behaviour.  He 
caught  the  horrified  glances  of  the  billiard-players 
with  surprise  and  a  touch  of  truculence ;  only, 
however,  until  he  realised,  as  he  quickly  did  with 
tinglings  of  shame  between  the  shoulder-blades, 
that  he  had  committed  a  club  crime  of  great 
enormity.  Whereupon  he  hurried  into  the  hall, 
and  with  a  crestfallen  expression  took  up  the  tape 
which  was  bcincj  ejected,  with  noisy  irregularity, 
from  a  machine  in  an  angle  of  the  wall. 

Upon  the  tape  were  the  names  of  horses.  Fie 
recognised  none  of  them.  With  a  growing  sense 
of  loneliness  he    turned  to   a    second   machine  and 

watched    a    little   hammer   spell    out,   in   jerks,   the 

206 


BDam's  Cla^  207 

proceedings  in  Parliament,  the  Law  Courts,  and 
other  places  of  some  importance.  He  read,  with  no 
interest,  that  Mr.  Keir  Hardie  (continuing)  said  : 
"  The  Lords  is  a  potty  and  a  putrid  institution  which 
ought  to  be  let  on  lease  to  Madam  Tussaud  .  .  . 
5.35,  Mr.  Justice  Darling,  amid  loud  laughter,  said 
tliat  twins  were  regrettable  accidents  and  parents 
unfortunate  necessities.  .  .  ." 

He  was  just  going  to  read  the  closing  prices  on 
the  Stock  Exchange  when  he  heard  a  high-pitched 
voice  in  the  outer  hall  which  seemed  familiar.  He 
turned  towards  it  with  an  eagerness  that  was  not 
without  a  touch  of  pathos. 

With  a  feeling  of  immense  delight  and  relief  he 
recognised  Praze,  a  man  he  had  consistently  cut 
three  years  ago,  because  he  regarded  him,  for  no 
earthly  reason  other  than  that  he  wore  a  gold  bangle 
and  sunset  socks,  as  a  rather  dangerous  character. 

"  ilullo,  Praze,  old  man!"  cried  Blundell  heartily. 
"  How  are  you  ?  " 

Odo  Praze  was  one  of  those  men  no  city  and 
no  club  can  afford  to  be  without.  He  was  the 
father  of  a  great  many  of  the  mo.-^t  amusing 
expressions  and  stories  in  circulation,  and  most  of 
those  whose  parents  preferred  to  remain  anonymous. 
"  Have    you    heard    Odo    Praze's     latest  ? "    was    a 


2o8  HDam's  Cla^ 

question  which  had  been  asked  for  two  years  in 
all  parts  of  London,  including  Bayswater,  many 
times  a  day.  In  appearance  he  was  strenuously 
bizarre.  His  features  bore  a  strong  resemblance 
to  those  of  Nero.  His  hair,  where  it  was  not  stained 
w'ith  a  tincture  of  violets,  was  auburn,  brushed  straight 
back  without  a  deliberate  parting.  So  also  was 
his  moustache,  which  was  a  most  amusing  affair, 
consisting  of  fifteen  bristles  on  one  side  of  his  nose 
and  seventeen  on  the  other  side,  twisted  up  the 
wrong  way.  He  was  tall  and  slight  and  unathletic, 
and  he  always  wore  curiously  tight  clothes  designed 
by  himself  His  ties,  of  which  he  had  an  endless 
array,  although  he  only  wore  one  at  a  time, 
were  Odoesque ;  that  is  to  say,  they  consisted 
of  some  glowing  material  upon  which  was 
stencilled  a  list  of  his  epigrams  in  Chinese  char- 
acters, or  a  life-like  representation  of  Limburger 
microbes  at  play.  But  it  was  in  the  matter  of 
waistcoats  and  socks  that  he  exercised  the  whole 
strength  of  his  brilliant  if  somewhat  impish  imagi- 
nation. For  the  former  he  was  held  in  awe  and 
admiration  by  undergraduates  of  all  English- 
speaking  universities,  to  say  nothing  of  those  iii 
the  United  States,  and  for  the  latter  there  was  not  ?- 
single  man  or  woman  moving  in  the  bc.t  society  at 


home  and  on  the  Continent  who  did    not  envy  his 

temerity  and  endeavour  to  imitate  his  designs  with 

cowardly  emendations.     With  reluctance  and  regret 

he   was   a   barrister   who,    while   waiting   for    briefs 

which  he  thanked  Heaven,  and  the  solicitors  of  his 

acquaintance,  for  never  sending  him,  improved  the 

shining     hour     by    drawing     excruciatingly     funny 

caricatures  of  his  personal  enemies,  and  by  writing 

bewilderingly    funny    skits,    sketches,    articles,   short 

stories,  dialogues,  and  novels  about  whiskers  and  his 

personal  friends.     In  regard   to  whiskers  he  looked 

upon    himself    as    a    man    with     a     mission,    and, 

quixotically  brushing  aside  the  appeals  of  his  well- 

v/ishers,  had   done  for  "  face-fittings  "   (as  he  called 

them)  what  Dickens  did  for  preparatory  schools — he 

had  shown  tliem  up.     The  only  thing  he  did  besides 

drawing,    writing,  dressing,  talking,  and   putting   in 

good  work  with  a  knife  and  fork,  was  to  ride  every 

morning   for   an    hour   in   the    Row.      He   did   not 

commit  this  commonplace  for  the  sake  of  his  liver. 

He    disliked    riding    extremely.       He    rode,    much 

against  his  better  inclinations,  because  early  in  life 

he   had    designed  a  racing  -  stable  waistcoat  and  a 

white  bowler  hat,  and  he  rode  in  order  to  live  up  to 

these  really  amazing  creations.     This  is  the  reason 

of  his  having  recently  been  macie  the  subject  of  a 

o 


2IO  H&am'5  (Tla^ 

new  chapter  in  Fox's  "  Book  of  IMartyrs."  The 
chapter  is  headed  "  For  the  Sake  of  His  Art." 
Apart  from  all  his  delightful  and  boyish  eccen- 
tricities which  he  practised  from  an  earnest  human- 
itarian point  of  view  —  being  anxious,  above  all 
things,  to  awaken  laughter  in  a  dull  world  —  he 
was  genuinely  warm  -  hearted  and  sensitive.  He 
numbered  among  his  staunch  friends  statesmen, 
judges,  dramatists,  soldiers,  actors,  critics,  Bridge- 
players,  peers,  non  -  smokers,  barristers,  other 
conversationalists,  would  -  be  jokers,  and  Mr. 
Brittle. 

He  crinkled  up  his  eyes  and  looked  at  Blundell 
for  a  moment  without  recognising  him. 

"  Oh — er — let  me  see  .  .  .  why,  it's  E.  Blundell, 
isn't  it?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Blundell.  "  How  goes  it,  my  dear 
fellow  ? " 

*'  Ob,  so  -  so,"  replied  Praze,  looking  slightly 
surprised  at  the  other's  unaccustomed  exuberance, 
"  Don't  seem  to  have  seen  you  about  recently: 
Thought  you'd  chucked  the  club.     Eh  ?  " 

"No,  I've  been  away,  you  know." 

"  Oh,  have  you  ?     Where,  eh  ? " 

"  China." 

"  Good  Lord  !     Why,  eh  ? " 


H&am's  Cla^  211 

Blundell  laughed.  "  Have  you  forgotten  what  my 
job  is  ?  -■' 

Fraze  tapped  a  cigarette  on  a  gold  case  and 
showed  a  set  of  brilliantly  successful  teeth. 

"  Well,  'pon  my  word,  I  .  .  .  not  Army ; 
what  ? " 

"  Not  much,"  said  Blundell  loyally  ;  "  Navy." 

"  Oh,  ah,  yes,  of  course.  You're  a  jolly  Jack-tar, 
a  handy-man,  as  they  say  in  the  music  halls.  You 
look  beautifully  tanned,  eh  ?  Wish  I  could  tan  like 
that.  I'd  give  five  years — no,  I  wouldn't,  not  now 
— I'd  give  a  week  of  my  life,  anyway — holy  week,  for 
choice — to  be  able  to  put  on  such  a  colour.  How 
long  did  it  take  yer,  eh  ?  " 

"  Rather  more  than  three  years." 

Praze  arrested  his  hand  in  the  action  of  striking  a 
match  on  a  box  that  was  attached  to  a  gold  chain 
fastened  to  a  trouser   button. 

"  What !  "  he  cried,  with  rather  overdone  surprise, 
"  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  you  haven't 
been  in  the  club  for  three  years?  I  could  have 
sworn  that  it  was  only  six  weeks  ago  that  I 
saw  you  hid  in'  your  brolly  under  your  overcoat  here  ! 
B'  Jove,  how  that  old  devil  Time  sprints  on  the  tan. 
As  I  have  frequently  said,  the  old  person  with  the 
sickle  is  the  leading  runner  of  our  epoch.     But  don't 


212  H&am'0  Cla^ 

let's  stand  in  this  dashed  draught.  Come  inside 
and  take  one." 

Blundcll  gladly  followed  Praze  along  the  tiled 
passage  that  looked  as  though  it  led  to  a  public 
wash-house,  and  sat  down  at  a  round  table  with  a 
marble  top. 

"  You  drink  with  me,"  he  said. 

'■  Not  me,"  said  Praze.  "  It's  my  funeral.  Don't 
entertain  a  man  who's  been  out  of  things  for  half  a 
century  every  day  of  the  week.     Whisky,  eh  ?  " 

"Thanks,  and  soda." 

"  No,  no,  not  soda.  Soda's  fizzled  out.  Nowadays 
one  drinks  the  water  they  clean  the  windows  of  the 
Daily  Mail  with.  It's  good  for  the  gout."  He 
beckoned  to  a  waiter  and  made  it  so,  quite  delighted 
with  Blundcll,  who  had  given  an  incredulous  smile 
at  his  last  remark. 

"  Three  years  away  from  London,  eh?  "  he  continued. 
"  You  must  feel  like  Alice  in  Wonderland." 

"  No,"  said  Blundcll  ;  "  everything's  exactly  the 
same   as  v/hen  I  went  away." 

"  The  same  !  "  cried  Praze  ;  "  the  same  !  " 

"  Well,  isn't  it  ?  " 

'■'■My  dear  feller  I  .  .  .''  Tiiere  was  a  world  of  pity 
in  the  voice.     "  Oh,  but  b'  Jove,  this  is  splendid  !  " 

Praze  arranged  himself  in  his  chair,  touched  his 


tie,  hitched  up  his  trousers  in  order  that  Blundell 
might  share  in  the  ineffable  delights  of  socks  of  a 
sugar-stick  design  in  silk,  turned  his  signet  ring 
crest  upwards,  and  lit  a  cigarette. 

"  Here's  a  rippin'  chance  for  a  bit  of  good  work. 
A  bright  conversationalist  don't  get  an  opportunity 
like  this  once  in  a  thousand  years.  Let  me  have 
the  felicity  of  leadin'  you  by  the  .  .  .  the  tough — if 
you  will  permit  me  to  say  so  in  its  complimentary 
sense  —  sun-tanned  hand  through  three  eventful 
years." 

"  Right  O ! "  said  Blundell,  examining  his 
companion's  waistcoat  with  awe  and  fright. 

"The  devil  of  it  is  to  know  where  to  begin.  If 
I  were  to  say  to  you,  with  a  graceful  wave  of  my 
lily  hand,  '  My  dear  old  feller,  the  quite  extraordinary 
changes  that  have  taken  place  in  this  our  city  are 
summed  up  in  tlie  three  cad  words :  "  London 
County  Council  "  ; '  you,  in  your  fine  ozone  manner, 
would  reply,  '  What  in  Hades  are  you  drivin'  at?'" 

"  I  shouldn't  have  said   Hades." 

Pr.'ize  shot  a  double  cuff. 

"  Whimsical  Walklcy  has  had  a  marked  effect  upon 
me.  I  frequently  find  myself  putting  simple  words 
into  Latin.  I  promise  to  do  my  best  not  to  err 
again.  .  .  .  Yes,  my  dear  E.  Blunuell,  wc  are  under 


214  Beam's  Cla^ 

the  side-spring  boot  of  Nonconformity.  London, 
yea,  and  even  Britain,  once  so  bold  and  free,  has 
fallen  into  the  hands  of  hypocrites  in  little  black 
ties  and  dickies,  sinners  in  india-rubber  collars,  old 
persons  with  an  incurable  itch  for  newspaper 
notoriety  and  love  of  tub-thumpin' — who  na'ively 
sprinkle  one  another  with  honorary  degrees,  and 
are  tearfully  indignant  when  they  are  called  dis- 
honest— by  rasping  ex-engineers  and  plumbers  and 
mayors,  who  were  more  anxious  to  hobnob  with 
canny  baronites  and  seaside  peers  in  the  House 
of  Commons  on  a  salary  than  to  plumb  in  that 
station  of  life  into  which  no  one  would  willingly 
have  put  them — Radicals  always  were  the  most 
beautiful  snobs  on  earth — and  last  but  not  least, 
George  Bernard  Shaw.  The  latter  is  the  silver 
lining  to  the  cloud.  Oh,  England,  my  England ! 
Do  you  follow  me  ?  " 

"  Er  .  .  ."  said  Blundell. 

Praze  patted  the  sailor's  arm. 

"  Don't  apologise,  Cap,"  he  said.  "  I  will  translate. 
In  penny-plain  English  I  am  drivin'  at  this  awful 
statement  of  fact.  All  the  members  of  the  London 
County  Council  and  the  National  Liberal  Club  have 
been  returned  to  Parliament.  Hence  these  tears. 
I  give  you  this  in   English  and  don't  encroach  on 


the  Walkley  patent,  because,  as  a  man  of  his  word, 
I  am  the  leading  case  of  our  time.  .  .  .  The  effects 
of  this  social  upheaval  are  appallin' !  England,  its 
fine  sense  of  dignity,  its  dull  and  portly  pre-emin- 
ence, its  military  and  naval  proud  incompetence, 
its  glorious  and  unique  unpicturesqueness  are  being 
tram-carred  out  of  existence.  '  Dr.'  Stiggins,  '  The 
Reverend  '  Mr.  Huggins,  the  Rt.  Hon.  John 
Buggins,  Mr.  Alpheas  Niggins,  L.C.C.,  and  Mr. 
H.  W.  Miggins,  the  eminent  penny-a-liner,  have 
run  amok  through  the  great  traditions  and  institu- 
tions of  this  our  country.  They  have  clothed 
Britannia  in  reach  -  me  -  downs,  and  washed  the 
Union  Jack  in  a  strong  solution  of  mottled  soap. 
The  lion  and  the  unicorn  they  have  replaced  by 
a  hyena  and  a  coster's  donkey,  and  they  have 
made  Gog  and  Magog  sign  the  pledge.  They 
have  given  a  month's  wages  to  St.  George  in  lieu 
of  notice,  and  have  presented  the  dragon  to  the 
Carnegie  Free  Library  at  Lavender  Hill." 

"  Yes,"  replied  Blunciell ;  "  I  remember  hearing 
that  the  Radicals  had  lied  themselves  into 
power." 

"  Oh,  the  rumour  reached  you,  eh  ?  " 

"  Yes.  That's  to  say,  I  could  have  read  it  in  the 
EngHsh  papers  if  I  hadn't  been  more  interested  in 


2i6  Beam's  Clai? 

cricket  and  police  news.  A  jolly  nice  place  the 
House  of  Commons  now,  I  should  think ! " 

*'  Well/'  said  Praze,  looking  with  affectionate 
interest  at  his  finger-nails.  "  from  having  been  a 
great  success  as  a  comedy  and  the  best  club  in 
the  country,  it  has  developed  into  a  knock-about 
show,  and  a  Young  Men's  Christian  Association 
without  the  Christianity." 

•'  Beastly  shame,"  cried  Blundell. 

"  But  these  are  not  the  only  things  that  have 
happened  in  your  absence,"  continued  Praze,  with 
intense  enjoyment.  "  It  is  not  too  much  to  say — to 
employ  a  clichd  of  the  dramatic  critic  with  a  disease 
that  is  known  as  'the  literary  tendency  ' — that  every 
blessed  thing  has  undergone  a  change.  Society,  for 
instance,  is  no  longer  immoral.  It  eats  little  and 
drinks  less,  and  has  taken  to  n^.arr}-ing  the  chorus- 
girl  whom,  in  your  tiir.c,  it  blatar;tly  placed  in 
Curzon  Street.  As  a  natural  consequence,  there  are 
few  domestic  servants  left.  TI\cy  are  all  mistresses 
— I  mean  wives,  of  course." 

''Rot,"  said  Blundell. 

"Oh  well,  I  dunno,"  replied  Praze  thoughtfull)'. 
"  Early  training  will  enable  thern  to  keep  their 
houses  in  order,  ch  ?  As  to  the  stage,  the  old  smug 
talk  of  its  beinc?  an  educative  force  and  so  fortli  has 


Beam's  CIa\?  217 

died  the  death.  Theatres  are  now  frankly  run  as 
places  of  amusement,  and  are  for  the  most  part 
catered  for  by  young  men  who  have  no  respect  for 
the  memory  or  the  methcds  of  old  man  Ibsen.  So 
all  our  pieces  are  musical,  with  one  or  two  brilliant 
exceptions.  It  need  hardly  be  said,  Cap,  that  the 
leading  lady  and  gentleman  who  scorn  to  learn  high 
kicking  are  now  only  to  be  seen  among  first-night 
audiences  in  bitter  conversation  with  those  of  our 
critics  who  still  talk  about  'presentment  of  life,'  and 
all  that  kind  of  rot.  Thank  Pleavcn,  there  are 
doosed  few  of  those  wordy  jokers  left.  All  our 
really  good  critics  write  plays  themselves,  and  know 
full  well — you  don't  mind  my  sayin'  full  well,  eh? 
It's  Beerbohmian.  I  am  his  Columbus — I  say,  know 
full  well  that  directly  the  stage  makes  any  serious 
attempt  to  reflect  life  as  we  know  it,  all  the  theatres 
will  be  taken  over  by  Wcslcyan  Missions.     Eh  ? " 

"  Ha,  ha ! "  replied  Blundell,  beginning  to  fed 
slightly  fogged. 

Praze  looked  at  him  as  an  equilibrist  looks  at  a  dull 
matinee  audience  v/hen,  after  he  has  nearly  bruken 
his  neck,  he  receives  feeble  and  scattered  applause. 
Being,  however,  a  conscientious  conversationalist — ■ 
that  is  to  say,  a  man  who  talks  for  his  own 
enjo}^ment  first — he  started  again. 


2i8  Hbam's  Gla^ 

"  Art — as  we  still  call  English  painting — is  much 
as  you  left  it.  The  Acadeniy  continues  to  give 
space  only  to  the  work  of  amateurs  and  R.A.s,  in 
order  that  the  so-called  art  critics  may  continue  to 
grow  hysterical  on  the  subject  of  values  and  middle 
distances,  and  architecture  has  fallen  into  the  hands 
of  Tom  Jerry,  the  speculative  builder.  His  work 
chiefly  consists  in  pulling  down  the  exquisitely  ugly 
and  putting  up  the  hideously  pretty.  The  constitu- 
tion of  London  has  been  completely  undermined  by 
tubes.  As  these  fuggy  things  don't  pay,  company 
promoters  are  busy  making  more  of  'em.  You've 
noticed  the  motor  'bus,  eh  ?  " 

"  My  Lord,  yes,"  said  Blundell,  making  a  face. 

"  Exactly,"  said  Praze.  "  And  now  I  must  go  to 
the  Library  and  put  all  this  down  before  I  forget  it. 
It'll  do  nicely  for  the  next  issue  of  the  P.M.G.  By-by." 
He  got  up  and  screwed  his  mouth  into  a  smile. 
"  Quite  mad,"  he  said,  with  an  air  of  pride.  Then 
he  twisted  round  and  walked  away  on  his  heels. 

As  he  made  his  way  upstairs,  he  remembered, 
with  a  slight  sense  of  consternation,  that  he  had 
omitted,  for  the  first  time  for  three  years,  to  bring 
in  the  word  "  whiskers." 

He  made  up  for  it,  however,  in  his  delightful 
article. 


CHAPTER  V 

Blundell  had  dined  well,  and  his  second  cigar 
was  more  excellent  than  the  first  He  watched 
two  turns  from  his  stall  at  the  Music  Hall  with 
some  amusement  —  one  devoted  to  a  fat  lady  in 
blue  tights  who  sang  sentimental  songs  with  a 
strong  Cockney  accent,  and  the  other  to  a  troupe 
of  Swiss  acrobats  with  greasy  hair  and  oily  smiles — 
and  then  went  up  to  the  promenade,  rather  hoping 
he  might  meet  someone  he  knew.  He  felt  more 
lonely  and  insignificant  than  ever. 

The  dining-room  of  the  JNIetropole  had  been  well 
filled.  He  knew  no  one.  The  people  seemed  to 
be  mostly  Americans  from  the  queerness  of  their 
clothes  and  hair,  and  people  from  Bootle  and 
Kettering,  from  the  commonplace  cut  of  their  faces. 

After     searching,     almost     eagerly,     among     the 

heterogeneous   crowd  which   moved    backwards   and 

forwards   for  a  face  that  he  knew  without  success, 

he  leant  over  the  velvet  back  of  the  partition  and 

listened,  with  a  queer  sense  of  being  a  mere  atom, 

219 


} 


220  HDam's  Clai? 

a  unit,  to  the  orchestra,  which  was  an  excellent  one. 
A  selection  of  "  II  Pagliacci"  rose  above  the  babbie 
of  tongues,  and  its  passion,  its  jealousy,  its  despair, 
touched  the  note  of  sentimentality  within  him,  and 
made  him  long  eagerly  to  see  his  wife  again.  Yet, 
as  ho  listened,  and  as  he  conjured  up  to  his  mind 
the  face  and  figure  of  his  beautiful  little  wife,  the 
only  words  the  ringing  music  sang  to  him  were  : 
"Come  at  once— Milly,  Milly." 

He  shook  himself,  realising  for  the  shade  of  an 
instant  that  the  intervention  of  Milly  at  such  a 
moment  was  not  cricket.  It  was  too  exciting,  too 
pleasant  to  be  permitted.  Metaphorically  giving 
himself  the  command  to  "eyes  right,"  he  brushed 
the  other  woman's  name  out  of  his  mind  and 
resolutely  replaced  that  of  his  wife.  Whereupon 
the  music  bored  him  and  he  turned  his  back  upon 
the  orchestra  and  watched  the  ever-moving  crowd. 

It  was  made  up  mainly  of  old  and  elderly  men 
who  ought  to  have  known  better,  boys  who  knew 
nothing  or  too  much,  and  the  refuse  of  France, 
Germany,  Switzerland,  and  Russia  in  second-hand 
Ascot  frocks.  They  were  there,  by  permi^^sion  of 
the  London  County  Council,  for  the  purpose  of 
damaging  the  constitution  of  England's  manhood, 
and  they  sat  and  walked  about,  obviously  unhealthy, 


H^am'0  cia^  221 

with  a  blatant  frankness  that  was  amazing,  to  the 
great  benefit  of  the  shareholders  of  the  concern. 

Even  Blundell,  who  rarely  bothered  himself  to 
think  about  matters  which  were  not  of  immediate 
personal  moment,  gave  a  grunt  of  disgust  at  the 
cowardly  and  smug  hypocrisy  of  the  half-educated 
people  who  make  the  bye-laws  for  the  government 
of  London. 

Rather  pleased  with  himself  at  the  application  of 
the  phrase,  he  called  their  method  of  dealing  with 
a  problem  long  ago  successfully  overcome  by 
France,  the  policy  of  the  ostrich,  and  scoffed  at 
the  idiotic  vigilance  of  the  police,  who  bustled  and 
harried  the  person  who  could  not  afford  to  pursue 
her  business  on  premises  licensed  to  sell  wines, 
spirits,  and  tobacco,  and  looked  with  a  tolerant  and 
even  admiring  eye  on  her  more  successful  sister 
who  arrived  at  and  departed  from  the  gilded  and 
be-marbled  building  in  a  hansom  cab. 

Realising  at  once,  in  a  manner  that  was  wholly 
and  superbly  insular,  that,  after  all,  the  matter  had 
nothing  to  do  with  him,  Blundell  stiKlicd  the  clothes 
and  manners  of  these  desirable  aliens  with  amuse- 
ment. Tliey  were  all  scrupulously  in  the  fa'<hion, 
and  nearly  all  had  gold  chain  purses  hanging  from 
a  white-gloved  finger.     Som.e  walked  with  parasols, 


222  a&am'5  Cla^ 

much  laced,  and  others  cultivated  the  kangaroo-like 
walk  which  is  rendered  necessary  by  the  tyranny 
of  those  portions  of  a  woman's  costume  which  are 
beautifully  reproduced  weekly  in  all  self-respecting 
illustrated  papers  devoted  to  the  theatre  and  sport. 

Others  sat  on  the  long,  narrow  seat  under  the 
wall  in  haughty  attitudes,  but  with  watchful  eyes, 
nodding  to  and  examining,  either  with  scorn  or 
envy,  the  clothes  of  business  rivals.  A  few  watched 
the  various  turns  with  interest  and  hummed  the  airs 
played  by  the  band  with  the  quiet  patronage  of  the 
season  ticket-holder. 

All,  of  course,  held  short,  interrogatory  conver- 
sations with  passers-by,  and  Blundell  was  frequently 
asked  if  he  was  "  alrite,  dear,"  by  the  more  energetic 
person  who  considered  it  good  policy  to  rove. 

After  the  band  had  finished  its  selection,  to  which 
no  one  paid  the  slightest  attention,  the  "  turns  "  were 
continued. 

A  man  in  an  artistic  selection  of  rags,  with  a  vivid 
red  nose,  whitened  eyes,  and  a  mass  of  unkempt 
hair,  made  his  appearance.  He  was  evidently  a 
great  popular  favourite.  He  was  received  with 
rapturous  applause  that  must  have  continued  for  at 
least  a  minute, 

Blundell  looked  eagerly  at  hi&  programme.      No. 


Beam's  Cla^  223 

15,  he  saw^  vvas  "Muggins,  the  King  of  Kidders." 
The  name  was  unknown  to  him,  but  he  made  up 
his  mind  that  the  man  was  a  great  artiste  of  some 
kind  or  another. 

lie  was  right.  No  man  who  played  Hamlet  or 
Othello,  or  who  sang  the  glorious  but  quite 
unsingable  music  of  Wagner  in  this  or  any  other 
epoch,  could  hold  a  candle  to  Muggins  as  an  "  artiste." 

Like  all  men  of  genius,  he  was  simple  and  direct. 
He  merely  fell  over  imaginary  pins  with  great 
violence  and  proceeded  to  brush  his  rags  tenderly 
with  a  series  of  brushes,  which  he  collected  from 
a  cavern  in  his  trousers,  and  which,  growing  larger 
after  every  fall,  were  stuck  in  a  line  into  the  stage. 
Every  time  he  fell,  the  drummer  in  the  orchestra 
celebrated  the  event  with  enthusiasm. 

Not  a  word  was  spoken  by  the  artiste  from  New 
York,  though  he  sometimes  took  it  into  his  head  to 
remove  dozens  of  collars.  Finally,  when  he  thought 
that  his  audience  must  be  saved  from  hysterics,  he 
fell  backwards  over  the  footlights  and  hit  the  drum 
himself,  and  then,  climbing  back  upon  the  stage,  left 
it  to  thunders  of  applause. 

With  the  tears  streaming  down  his  face,  BlundcU 
thanked  Heaven  that  he  belonged  to  a  country  that 
recognised  and  appreciated  greatness. 


224  HDani's  Cla^ 

As  the  numbers  of  the  next  turn  were  shot  into 
their  slots  by  two  powdered  attendants  in  the  Royal 
livery,  Bluiidell  felt  a  hand  upon  his  ram. 

"  I  say,  be  a  brick,  and  let  me  lean  on  the  barrier, 
will  you  ?     There  are  no  seats  left,  and  I'm  doggo," 

He  turned  quickly,  and  looked  down  at  a  young 
woman  with  a  pretty,  tired  face,  dressed  smartly  and 
well. 

"  Oh,  do,"  said  Blundell,  making  way  for  her. 

"  Thanks,  very  much.  You  can  look  over  my 
head,  can't  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  that's  all  right." 

The  girl  put  her  elbows  on  the  barrier  to  support 
her,  and  leaned  back  with  a  sigh.  She  faced 
Blundell,  and  screwing  up  her  eyes,  examined  him 
expertly. 

"  You've  just  come  back  from  abroad,"  she  said 
quietly. 

"  Yes,"  replied  Blundell,  glad  to  find  someone  to 
speak  to. 

"  You  don't  find  sun  in  this  country  to  make  your 
face  that  colour." 

"  It's  your  country,  isn't  it  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,"  she  said,  with  a  laugh.  "  I  wasn't 
made  in  Germany." 

"  I  thought  you  spoke  English  like  a  native." 


B5am*5  Cla^  225 

"  Well,  rather.  I  read  the  Bible  to  my  father 
nii^ht  and  mornuig  for  fifteen  years,  and  that's 
supposed  to  be  the  best  English  going." 

"  Yes,"  said  Blundell,  feeling  a  trifle  shocked  ;  '''  I 
suppose  so." 

The  girl  was  quick  to  notice  the  inflection  of  his 
voice. 

"  Oh  !  you  needn't  talk  to  me  if  you'd  rather  not," 
she  said. 

Blundell  bent  forward  politely.  "  Oh,  please,"  he 
said.     "  Ah — honoured  and  delighted  !  " 

"  Piffle  !  "  said  the  girl,  looking  pleased.  "  I  know 
all  about  you  in  once.     You're  an  Irish  sailor." 

"  Wrong  as  to  the  nationality,"  laughed  Blundell. 

"  A  sailor,  anyway.  You  all  say  '  Ah '  like  that, 
and  bob  your  head  when  you're  coddin'  politeness. 
I've  met  lots  of  you.  You're  all  so  jolly  well  shaved, 
too,  when  you  do  shave,  and  you  never  put  stuff  on 
your  hair.     On  leave  ?  " 

"Yes,  thank  the  Lord  !" 

"  Goin'  to  put  in  a  good  time  ?  " 

'  Hope  so." 

"  Can  I  be—" 

Blundell  stopped  the  remark  with  a  laugh.  "  You 
don't  let  the  grass  grow,  do  you  ?  " 

"  Well,  things  are  jolly  bad,"  said  the  girl,  making 


226  H&am*s  Cla^ 

a  wry  face.  "  One  has  to  hustle  these  times,  I  can 
tell  you.  I  don't  know  what's  comin'  over  this 
country,  'pon  my  word  !  Radical  Government,  / 
say."  Blundell  shot  back  his  head  and  gave  a 
loud  guffaw.     "  What  yer  laughin'  at  ?  " 

"  I'm  sorry.  But  that's  what  ...  a  man  put  all 
sorts  of  horrors  down  to  this  afternoon." 

"  Well,"  said  the  girl,  with  a  touch  of  annoyance, 
"  he  knows  something.  I've  given  up  readin'  about 
em  in  the  paper  now.     They  make  me  depressed." 

"Why?"  asked  Blundell,  noticing  that  she  was 
the  possessor  of  an  extremely  pretty  neck. 

"  Oh,  they're  such  a  common  lot.  There's  one 
man  there  with  a  queer  Scotch  name  who  makes 
me  sick.  He's  always  askin'  someone  to  cut  down 
someone  else's  salary.  He's  no  earthly  good  him- 
self, and  hates  to  see  others  making  a  bit.  A  tyke, 
I  call  a  man  like  that ;  don't  you,  dear  ?  " 

"  Er  .  .  .  yes,"  said  Blundell,  who  had  not  been 
listening. 

Her  ears,  he  found,  were  very  pretty  also,  and 
her  hair  curled  very  charmingly  on  her  forehead. 

"  Where  did  you  dine  to-night  ?  " 

"  M6tr6pole." 

"  Mdtropole  ?  Oh,  I  know.  I've  never  been 
there.     Do  you  well  ?  " 


BDam's  Cla^  227 

"  Oh  yes."  Her  eyebrows  were  not  made  up,  he 
discovered. 

"  I  once  stayed  with  a  hop  merchant  at  a  hotel 
rather  like  that  at  Margate,  for  a  fortnight.  Nice 
old  thing  he  was.  Big  eater,  and  travelled  with  seven 
bottles  of  hair  wash.  Nearly  bald,  too.  You  are 
funny,  some  of  you.  .  .  .  You  seem  to  find  me  a 
quiet  kind  of  joke  by  the  way  you're  grinning." 

Blundell  touched  her  hand  with  his  finger. 
"  You're  a  jolly  little  thing,"  he  said. 

"  I  say,"  she  said  suddenly,  looking  at  him  with 
a  reminiscent  eye. 

"  Well  ?  ' 

"  Haven't  we  met  somewhere  before  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Blundell,  rather  hurriedly.  "  At  least, 
I  don't  think  so.     Why  ?  " 

"  I  dunno.  ...  I  could  swear  I'd  seen  you  before 
when  you  smile.  And  the  way  you  threw  back 
your  head  when  you  laughed  just  now  seemed  .  .  . 
Oh,  what's  the  word  ?  " 

"Familiar?" 

"  Yes.     Are  you  sure  you've  been  abroad  ? " 

"  Quite  sure." 

"  You're  such  liars,  most  of  you.  Oh  well,  it 
don't  matter.     Anyway,  I  rather  like  you." 

"  Oh,  honoured,  really." 


2  28  Beam's  Cla^ 

"  All  right.  There's  no  need  to  be  sarcastic. 
I'm  not  talkin'  business.  1  do  like  you,  and  there 
it  is.  You've  talked  away  to  me  as  though  I  was 
— oh,  you  know — a  respectable  shopec  or  some- 
thing of  the  kind.  It  makes  a  bit  of  a  change. 
Well,  it's  no  good  my  hangin'  about  any  longer. 
The  show'll  be  over  in  seven  minutes.  I'll  say 
good-night,  and  get  ofT  home." 

She  waited  for  a  moment  and  looked  at  him 
quizzically.  There  was  something  a  little  sad  in 
her  tired  smile. 

Blundell  noticed  it. 

"  Poor  little  wretch,"  he  thought.  "  What  a  life  ! 
The  Metropole  will  be  beastly  lonely,  and  Betty 
wouldn't  mind  my  just  seeing  her  home.  .  .  .  It'll 
be  doing  the  girl  a  kindness  to  be  treated  as  if 
she  were  ...  a  respectable  shopee,  as  she  calls  it." 

"  How  are  }0u  going  ?  " 

She  looked  at  him  eagerly.  "  Oh,  walking.  Can't 
afford  to  drive  these  times." 

"  Come  along,  I'll  drive  you." 

"  Thanks  awf  ly,"  she  said. 

She  led  the  way  through  the  crowd  with  a 
suspicion  of  triumph  in  her  manner.  A  tall  woman 
in  an  extraordinary  hat  winked  at  her  as  she  passed. 

An    elephantine    attendant,    in     a    vivid    uniform 


Beam's  Cla^  229 

wearing  the  ribbons  of  several  medals,  called  a  cab, 
and  the  girl  jumped  in. 

"  Where  ?  "  asked  Blundell. 

"  Oh,  just  say  home.     He  knows." 

Blundell  said  "  Home."  The  cabman  lifted  the 
reins  with  the  butt-end  of  his  whip  and  grinned. 

With  some  difficulty  the  cab  turned  into  a  long 
stream  of  cabs,  carriages,  motor  cars  and  motor 
'buses,  and  was  borne  slowly  along  up  Coventry 
Street. 

The  theatres  were  just  over,  and  the  pavements 
were  filled  with  masses  of  hu^'rying  people.  A  slight 
rain  was  falling,  and  the  s^.ining  street  throw  back 
the  reflection  of  the  innumerable  electric  lights. 

"Comfortable?"  asked  Blundell. 

"  Rather,"  said  the  girl,  leaning  back  in  the  cab 
and  putting  her  hand  through  his  arm  in  a  friendly 
manner. 

"  I  think  I'd  better  tell  the  man  to  put  the  window 
down.     You'll  get  wet." 

"  Oh,  no.  Let's  get  som.e  air.  That  place  v/as 
so  fugjy." 

Blundell  took  her  hand. 

The  cab  turned  into  the  Haymarket  T];C  glare 
of  the  lights  on  the  roof  of  His  Majesty's  Theatre 
had  something  pleasantly  barbaric  about  it. 


230  Beam's  Clap 

Blundell  felt  in  better  spirits.  The  horrid  feeling 
of  loneliness  had  lifted. 

"Wonderful  place,  London,"  he  said. 

"  Urn  !     I  suppose  so." 

"  I  saw  in  the  paper  to-day  that  London  was 
empty."     He  nodded  towards  the  crowd. 

"Yes,  they  have  a  lot  of  space  to  fill  somehow," 
said  the  girt  dryly. 

As  they  passed  the  Carlton,  Blundell  bent  forward 
and  watched  a  very  young  man  help  a  pretty  and 
petulant-looking  girl  with  her  hair  in  a  queue  out 
of  an  electric  brougham. 

"  What  a  charming  child,"  he  said. 

"  An  amateur,"  replied  his  companion  scornfully. 
"  Do  you  know  the  man  ?  " 

"  Not  from  Adam." 

"Lord  William  Ascot." 

"  Oh,  the  son  of  a  man  in  the  Cabinet." 

"Don't  know  anything  about  his  father.  We 
know  him  as  '  Billy  Softy.'  He's  in  the  Guards. 
He's  just  bought  a  gold  bed  for  that  baby." 

"A  gold  what?" 

"  Bed  !  Never  heard  of  a  bed  ?  She's  a  '  foot- 
light  favourite,'  you  know.  Haven't  you  seen  her 
photograph  in  all  the  illustrated  papers  taken  in 
bold  attitudes  in   a  bath-wrap  or  a  dusting-sheet? 


You  noticed  the  man  who  called  our  cab  ?  He's 
her  father.  They  do  say  that  she'll  be  Lady 
William  one  of  these  days." 

"  No7isense  !  " 

"  It's  the  only  way  for  those  young  men  to  get 
interviewed  in  the  papers.  Eton,  Sandhurst,  St. 
George's  Barracks,  Gaiety  Theatre  —  that's  the 
programme.  Oh,  the  peerage  is  going  very 
strong  these  times,  I  can  tell  you.  Hops,  tobacco, 
Comic  Cuts — there's  nothing  to  live  up  to,  y'see." 

The  cab  turned  into  Buckingham  Palace  Road. 
The  rain  fell  more  heavily.  The  road  was  quiet 
and  clear  of  traffic. 

"Much  farther?"    asked  Blundell. 

"  Pimlico,"  said  the  girl. 

"I  was  born  in  Pimlico,"  said  Blundell  irrelevantly. 

"Which  part?" 

"  St.  George's  Square." 

"  Funny,"  said  the  girl,  "  I  look  at  the  backs  of 
those  houses  from  my  window." 

Blundell  dropped  the  girl's  hand.  With  the 
primness  that  is  peculiar  to  Englishmen  he  wished 
that  he  had  not  mentioned  the  matter.  A  queer, 
uncomfortable,  almost  superstitious  feeling  crept 
over  him.  What  would  his  mother  have  said,  he 
thought  .  ,  .  and  stopped  thinking  at  once.     What 


232  B&am'5  Cla^ 

was  the  good  of  thinking?  The  fact  remained  that 
he  was  hideously  lonely,  and  was  merely  performing 
an  act  of  kindness  in  seeing  a  poor  little  girl  home 
late  at  night.  He  was  only  saving  her  from  a  long 
walk  in  the  rain  when  she  was  tired  and  unable 
to  afford  to  get  wet.  It  was  perfectly  true  that  he 
need  not  have  been  alone,  that  if  he  had  played  the 
game  he  would,  by  this  time,  have  been  in  the  country, 
talking  to  the  wife  who  loved  him  so  dearly.  .  .  . 

That  also  was  a  matter  about  which  it  was  totally 
unnecessary  to  think.  Milly  wanted  him.  ("  Milly, 
Milly,  b'  Jove  ! ") 

"  I  didn't  ask  you  to  hold  my  hand,"  said  the 
girl  petulantly. 

"What?  .  .  .  Oh,  I'm  sorry.     I  was  .  .  .  er  .  .  ." 

"Yes,  I  know.  Thinkin'.  I  often  .  .  .  don't. 
Only  fools  think.  Wise  people  just  live  and  let  it 
go  at  that." 

The  cab  drew  up  at  a  dingy,  flippant  house.  Its 
doorway  had  shabby  columns.  A  light  was  burning 
in  a  window  of  a  room  in  the  area.  The  blind  was 
pulled  aside  as  Blundull  threw  back  the  cab  doors 
and  someone  peeped  out.  A  black  cat  arched  a  thin 
back  and  rubbed  its  ribs  against  the  railings,  mewing. 

Blundell  jumped  out  and  held  his  hand  over  the 
wheel. 


B&anV5  Glai?  333 

"  Thanks,"  said  the  girl.  "  Good  -  night."  She 
hurried  up  the  steps  and  fumbled  for  a  key. 

Blundcll  paid  the  cab,  sprang  up  the  steps,  and 
stood   by  the  girl. 

"Look  here,"  he  said;  "it's  early  yet,  and  I  funk 
that  lonely  hotel.  Have  you  any  objection  to  my 
corning  up  and  smoking  a  cigarette.-"' 

The  girl  darted  a  glance  at  him. 

"You  arc  a  rum  'un,"  she  said,  with  a  laugh. 
She  put  the  key  in  the  lock,  turned  it,  and  opened 
the  door.     "  Let  the  cat  in,  will  you  ?  " 

Blundcll  followed  her  into  a  narrow  hall  in  which 
there  was  an  unglobed  gas-jet  burning  low.  lie 
could  see  a  hat-stand,  several  of  whose  pegs  were 
broken,  and  he  noticed  that  the  pattern  of  the 
oil-cloth  on  the  floor  was  almost  rubbed  away. 

"  Come  on,"  said  the  girl.  "  Top  floor.  Fine 
exercise." 

He  shut  the  door  stealthily  and  padded  up  the 
creaking  stairs  carefully.  He  felt  excited  and 
amused  and  a  little  nervous.  There  was  a 
frightfulh/  stuffy  smell  about  the  house. 

"  Better  stay  where  you  are  till  I  light  up,"  ?aid 
the  girl,  opening  her  door.  "  You  won't  bless  me  if 
you  bark  your  shins  against  my — what  do  you  call 
it? — Elizabethzan  furniture." 


CHAPTER  VI 

Blundell  obeyed. 

He  heard  the  girl  go  into  the  room,  fumble  for 
a  moment,  with  mutterings  of  annoyance,  and  strike 
a  match.  From  below  came  the  sounds  of  a  bolt 
shot  back  and  of  someone  coughing. 

When  the  gas  was  lighted  Blundell  found  himself 
on  the  threshold  of  a  fairly  large  room.  It  was 
furnished  cheaply,  but  was  clean,  tidy,  and  prettily 
arranged.  A  screen,  upon  which  were  pasted 
hundreds  of  picture  postcards  of  actresses, 
cricketers,  famous  soldiers,  statesmen,  clergymen, 
and  jockeys,  cut  off  a  large  corner  of  the  room. 
Upon  the  table  was  a  bowl  of  fresh  flowers  and 
several  paper  -  covered  shilling  editions  of  novels. 
Two  large  cane  arm-chairs  stood  before  a  fireplace, 
in  the  grate  of  which  there  was  a  large  fern  in  a 
pot  tied  up  with  a  bright  red  piece  of  some  kind 
of  material.  Between  the  two  windows  there  was 
a  dressing  -  table  and  looking  -  glass.  One  of  the 
windows  was  open  at  the  top,  and  the  atmosphere 

of  the  room  was  fresh. 

234 


H5am'5  Cla^  235 

"  Jolly  room,"  said  Blundell.  He  entered  and 
took  off  his  coat  and  hat. 

"  Oh,  it  does,"  said  the  girl. 

Standing  before  the  glass  she  removed  her  hat, 
touched  her  hair  here  and  there,  and  then  drew  off 
her  gloves,  blew  into  them  and  carefully  laid  them 
out  upon  the  table. 

"  Do  you  mind  if  I  put  on  a  pair  of  bedroom 
slippers  ?  My  feet  get  so  drawn  in  these  tight 
shoes." 

"  Oh,  please  1 "  said  Blundell,  sitting  down  with 
his  back  to  her. 

The  girl  looked  grateful  and  smiled  at  the  back  of 
his  head.  She  changed  her  shoes  and  took  the 
opportunity  of  running  a  powder  puff  lightly  and 
expertly  over  her  face. 

"  You've  got  cigarettes,  I  suppose  ? "  she  asked. 

"  May  I  ?     Thanks  very  much." 

She  sat  in  the  other  chair  and  leaned  back  with  a 
sigh,  letting  her  arms  hang  down  limply.  Her  eyes 
closed  and  she  breathed  a  little  heavily. 

"  Poor  little  girl  1 "  said  Blundell  gently.  "  Worn 
out,  aren't  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,"  she  replied,  forcing  a  smile.  "  Only  a 
bit  fagged." 

"  Been  in  this  room  long  ?  "  asked  Blundell. 


236  BDam'5  Cla^ 

"  Ever  since  I  .  .  .  nearly  all  the  time,"  she 
replied. 

There  was  a  note  in  her  voice  that  touched  him 
deeply. 

"  I  say,  my  dear  child,  why  ever  did  j^ou  .  .  .  ?  " 

She  kicked  the  fender. 

"Oh,  look  here,"  she  said,  rather  loudly,  "steer 
clear  of  that,  please,  .  .  .  I've  got  some  whisky  if 
you'd  like  some."  "^ 

"No  thanks,"  said  Blundell.  "But  er  — can't  I 
mix  you  one  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Lord,  I  do  wish  j^ou  would.  I'm  sorry,  but 
I  don't  feci  like  ever  moving  again.  It's  over  there 
in  that  cupboard.  You'll  find  the  key  in  that 
hat-box,  under  the  tissue-paper  at  the  bottom." 

Blundell  found  it  and  the  whisky.  The  girl  drank 
it  eagerly  and  gave  him  back  the  glass, 

"  I  always  liked  sailors,"  she  said,  "  worse 
luck  ! " 

Blundell  bent  down  and  kissed  her. 

With  a  self-conscious  laugh,  he  put  the  glass  on 
the  table,  lit  a  fresh  cigarette,  and  put  his  elbov/  on 
the  mantel-board.  There  were  several  un framed 
photographs  upon  it.  He  eyed  them  indiffcrentl}-, 
until  he  caught  sight  of  one  representing  a  round- 
faced,   rather    confident    youth  in  the  uniform    of  a 


BDam'5  Cla^  237 

naval  cadet.  He  plucked  it  up  quickly  atid  looked 
at  it  with  his  mouth  open. 

"  Great  Caesar's  ghost  !  "  he  said,  with  a  gasp. 

"  What's  the  row  ? "'  asked  the  girl,  who  had  leaned 
back  again  and  shut  her  eyes. 

With  an  expression  of  growing  horror,  amazement, 
and  recognition,  Blundell  looked  at  the  slight  figure 
lying  in  the  chair  in  front  of  him.  "To  Alice"  was 
written  in  a  large  round  hand  upon  the  photograph, 
which  was  of  himself. 

"  Good  God  !  "  he  cried.     "  You ! " 

The  girl  sat  up  quickly  with  startled  eyes.  She 
saw  that  he  held  a  photograph.  She  saw  the  horror 
in  his  expression.  She  sprang  to  her  feet  and 
snatched  the  photograph  away  from  him.  Her  cyci 
moved  from  the  photograph  to  Blundell's  face  and 
back  again  to  the  photograph. 

She  gave  a  cry  between  a  sob  and  a  laugh,  threw 
the  photograph  on  to  the  table,  and  caught  up 
IMundcll's  hands  and  commenced  wringing  them 
gladly,  warml)'. 

"Oh — oh— oh  .  .  ."  she  cried.  "It  z's  you,  it  ts 
you.  I  thought  I  knew  your  face,  I  ti^ought  I  did. 
Didn't  I  ask  you — didn't  I  ?  Oh — oh  ...  I  a7u  so 
glad,  I  avi  so  glad.  Mr.  Blundell,  dear  Mr.  Blundell. 
.  .  .  Fancy,   after  all  these  years,  meeting  you  like 


238  Hbam's  Cla^ 

this.  Just  fancy.  Oh — oh  ...  I  am  so  glad.  Mr. 
Blundell  .  .  .  Oh — oh  .  .  .  You  remember  ?  .  .  . 
The  little  tobacco  shop,  with  the  polished  case 
with  the  glass  top  down  the  middle,  and  all  the 
pipes  glistening  on  red  velvet  ?  And  the  weekly 
papers  all  neatly  arranged  on  a  long  table  on 
the  other  side,  and  the  shiny  counter  smelling 
of  snuff?  And  me,  in  a  neat  black  dress 
down  to  my  ankles,  with  an  edging  of  white 
round  the  neck,  sitting  by  the  window  doing 
crewel  work  ?  .  .  .  And  father  in  a  black  tie  doing 
the  books  in  the  little  parlour,  with  the  door  open 
so  as  to  keep  an  eye  on  you  boys  when  you  came 
in  to  buy  cigarettes  and  say  bashful  things  to  me  ? 
.  .  .  Oh— oh  ...  Mr.  Blundell,  Mr.  Blundell  !  " 

She  stopped  for  breath. 

The  eager  rush  of  words,  the  pathetic  girlishness 
and  simplicity  of  her  joyful  recognition,  stirred 
Blundell  and  brought  a  lump  to  his  throat.  This 
was  the  little  girl  with  the  great  eyes  with  whom 
he  had  fancied  himself  to  be  in  love  all  those  years 
ago — in  love  for  ever  and  ever,  honestly,  deeply  in 
love  ;  the  little  girl  dressed  like  a  Quaker,  with 
the  earnest  face  and  sweet,  frank  smile.  .  .  , 
This  I 

The  girl   stood   still  for  a   moment  with  heaving 


Edam's  Cla^  239 

bosom,  waiting  for  him  to  say  something— something 
kind. 

Realising  instantly  why  she  waited,  Blundell 
forced  the  expression  of  horror  out  of  his  face, 
and  smiled  at  her  and  took  her  hand  with  a 
gesture  of  chivalry,  respect,  and  frank  pleasure. 

"  Alice  !  .  .  .  By  Jove,  isn't  this  ripping  ?  " 

She  gripped  his  hand  tightly  and  held  it  against 
her  heart.  Gratitude  left  her  wordless.  Tears 
sprang  to  her  eyes  and  her  lips  trembled. 

With  an  effort  Blundell  pursued  his  line  of  action, 
overdoing  it,  perhaps,  in  his  sympathetic  endeavour 
to  gloss  over  the  frightful  change  that  had  taken 
place  in  the  girl's  life  and  environment. 

"You've — you've  hardly  altered  a  bit,"  he  said. 
"  I  should  have  known  you  at  once,  if — if  it  hadn't 
been  for  the  lights  and  all  that." 

She  shook  her  head  and  smiled  through  her  tears. 
But  she  put  her  other  hand  upon  his  arm. 

"Honest  Injun,  b'  Jove!"  he  said.  "Dear  little 
Alice,  I  am  glad  to  sec  you  again." 

"You're  the  first  v;ho  knew  me  in  the  old  days — 
I — I've  spoken  to  since — " 

He  cut  in  hastily.  "  It  isn't  late.  Sit  down  again 
and  let's  have  a  good  long  yarn." 

He   placed   her   in   her  chair  and  returned  to  his 


240  HDam's  Glai? 

own.  He  saw  that  her  hands  were  trembling.  His 
own  were  not  steady. 

There  was  a  painful  pause.  Blundcll  tried  to 
think  of  some  commonplace  thing  to  say,  some- 
thing which  would  not  strike  a  wrong  note. 

"  I — er  .  .  .   I — er — "  he  began  lamely. 

She  bent  forward  and  put  her  hand  on  the  arm  of 
his  chair. 

"Mr.  Blundell,"  she  said,  "you  did  it  splendidly, 
but  don't  try  any  more.  I  understand,  and  I  .  .  . 
I'm  very,  very  grateful." 

"  Oh,  Alice,"  cried  Blundell,  with  all  the  best  of  his 
nature  stirred,  "  why — why  ,  .  ." 

"I  fell  in  love  with  a  gentleman,"  she  said  quietly, 
"  who  was  in  love  with  me.  He  asked  me  to  run 
away  with  him,  and  not  knowing  \\'hat  .  .  .  having 
been  brought  up  so  carefully  .  .  .  never  having  been 
told  .  .  ." 

Blundcll  flung  out  a  blasphemous  exclamation. 

"  The  brute  ! "  he  cried.  "  He  promised  to  marry 
you  and  didn't." 

"  No  ;  he  never  promised  to  marry  me.  He  only 
just  asked  me  to  go  away  vv^ith  him." 

"  Well  ? " 

"■  He  took  me  t  >  Cornwall  in  the  summer-time — 
such  a  lovely  place !     I  thought  we  were  going  to 


BDam's  Clas  241 

stay  there  always.  But  when  his  leave  was 
up  .  .  ." 

"  His  leave?  He  wasn't  one  of  us,  was  he  ?  One 
of  the  old  lot  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  and  when  his  leave  was  up  he  took  me 
back  agai.i  and  I  wont  home  to  wait  for  him.  At 
least  I  tried  to  go  home.  I  forgot  ...  I  didn't 
think  what  it  meant  in  those  days — that  father  was 
religious.  .  .  .  When  I  walked  into  the  dear  little 
shop  there  was  a  stout,  middle-aged  woman  in  a 
lace  collar  sitting  in  my  place.  She  saw  me  and 
gave  a  cry.  Father  was  in  the  parlour  doing  the 
books.  He  looked  up  and  came  out,  with  the  veins 
swelling  in  his  forehead.  He  drew  back  when  I  put 
out  my  arms,  and  made  a  queer  face  and  told  me  to 
get  out  and  never  come  back.  He  quoted  some  of 
the  words  in  the  Bible  that  I  had  often  read  to  him, 
but  never  understood.  I  understood  then  and  went 
away." 

''  Good  God  !  "  cried  Blundell. 

"  Religious  people  arc  like  that,"  said  Alice.  "  I 
took  lodgings  in  the  town  for  a  week,  and  wrote  to 
tAC  gentleman  a:id  told  him  what  had  happened. 
He  sent  me  money,  asked  me  to  write  once  a  week, 
and  said  lie  was  awfully  sorry,  and  wished  he  had 
never  taken  me  away.     I  stayed  in  those  rooms  for 

Q 


242  Beam's  Cla^ 

two  months,  and  then  no  mo;e  letters  came  and  no 
more  money.  With  \vhat  I  had  left  I  went  to  London 
to  find  work.  I  answered  an  advertisement  for  a 
general  servant,  no  other  kept.  The  lady  was  a 
Nonconformist,  like  father,  and  her  house  w^as  in  the 
suburbs.  I  told  her  I  had  quarrelled  with  my  father 
and  had  no  references.  She  to(jk  me  for  a  week  on 
trial  on  condition  that  she  was  to  examine  my  box 
every  night.     I  was  kept  on  until  she  noticed  .  .  ." 

She  stopped,  and  a  little  smile  crept  into  her  face, 
a  smile  that  is  worn  by  the  little  statues  in  the 
Normandy  churches. 

Blundell  cleared  his  throat. 

"  And  then,"  said  Alice,  "  she  said  much  the  same 
things  father  had  said,  and  told  me  to  go.  I  had 
saved  my  wages,  thinking,  perhaps,  that  as  she  was 
religious  too,  I  should  not  be  allowed  to  stay,  and  I 
took  a  room  near  Westminster  Bridge.  Lying  there 
and  thinking  of  Cornwall  was  easy,  because  the  bells 
on  the  tram  horses  were  like  the  bells  on  the  sheep. 
...  It  was  a  boy.  A  boy !  with  eyes  like  his,  the 
same  blue,  merry  eyes.  .  .  .  We  were  very  happy 
until  the  money  was  gone,  and  then  ...  I  woke  up. 
The  landlady  gave  me  a  fortnight  to  find  work,  and 
lent  me  money  to  buy  food  with.  Somehow  everyone 
seemed  to  know  about  baby.     I  wrote  again  to  the 


H&am'5  Cla^  243 

gentleman  to  his  ship,  but  there  was  no  answer.  At 
the  end  of  the  fortni.^ht,  the  landlady  came  np  and 
told  me  that  she  would  put  me  into  a  far  better  way 
of  making  money  than  getting  work.  And  she  took 
me  out  into  the  streets.  .  .  .'' 

Blundell  sprang  to  his  feet.  "  The  wretch,"  he 
shouted,  "  the  filthy  wretch." 

"  Baby  is  fifteen  now,"  she  said  quietly.  "  He's  a 
sailor  too — a  common  sailor — or  will  be  when  he 
leaves  the  training  ship.  I  see  him  at  Christmas 
and  in  the  summer.  He  thinks  I'm  a  widow 
working  in  a  shop.  When  he  is  with  me,  we  go 
down  ijcar  the  sea  and  take  rooms.  I  save  up  for 
those  times,  and  they  make  up  for  everything." 

Blundell  walked  up  and  down  the  room.  His 
face  was  flushed,  his  hands  clenched,  and  his  eyes 
bloodshot. 

"  A  gentleman,"  he  kept  repeating,  "  a  gentleman, 
.  .  .  One  of  us — one  of  the  old  lot.  .  .  .  By  God  !  if 
only  I  knew  which.  .  .  .  Alice,  who  was  it  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Alice. 

"  Is  he  alive  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Alice. 

'■■  How  do  you  know  ?  " 

"  I  saw  him  one  night  last  year.  He  was  with 
a  friend   where  you  met  me  to-night.      He  looked 


244  H^am'3  Cla^ 

brown  like  you,  and  was  just  the  same  merry  .  .  . 
He  didn't  know  me,  but  when  he  saw  me  he  smiled 
and  came  up  .  .  .  and  I  ran  awa}-." 

The  sweat  broke  out  on  Biundell's  forehead.  He 
couldn't  stand  still.  An  agony  of  self-reproach,  self- 
disgust,  and  impotent  rage  swept  over  him  His 
memory  rose  up  like  a  judge.  He  felt  like  a  criminal 
just  sentenced. 

"  What  unthink'ng  brutes  we  are,"  he  said  ;  "what 
d — d  unthinking  brutes  !  " 

Alice  rose  and  opened  a  little  box  with  a  key 
fastened  to  a  thin  gold  chain  that  hung  round  her 
neck.  With  tender,  proud  fingers  she  brought  out  a 
photograph  of  a  boy  in  sailor  clothes,  with  a  fresh, 
frank  face  and  sturdy  limbs. 

"  Look  !  "  she  said. 

Blundell  looked,  "  Fawcett — Fawcett,  by  God  !  " 
he  shouted. 

The  girl  caught  the  photograph  out  of  his  hand. 
"  No,  no,  no  !  "  she  cried.     "  No  !  '"' 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  Blundell,  anger  making  his  voice 
thick. 

The  girl  drew  herself  up.  Her  face  was  pale 
beneath  her  paint. 

"  No,"  she  said,  "  as  God's  my  judge  !  " 

Blundell    stared    into    her    face.       Her    eyes    were 


H5am's  Cla^  245 

steady  and  her  lips  firm.  Her  love  was  greater 
than  her  sense  of  truth. 

With  a  feeling  of  intense  relief,  Blundell  accepted 
her  word.     Fawcett  had  been  his  best  man. 

While  Alice  put  the  photograph  back  into  its 
place  with  trembling  fingers,  Blundell  pulled 
himself  together. 

"  When  are  you  to  see  the  boy  next,  Alice  ?  "  he 
asked. 

"  I'm  afraid  I  .  .  .  things  have  been  .  .  ." 

Blundell's  hand  closed  quickly  over  the  case  in  his 
pocket.  He  shifted  his  feet  nervously  and  gave  a 
cough. 

"  Alice,"  he  said,  "  as  an  old  friend  ...  if  I  might 
be  allowed  .  .  ." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Blundell  .  .  ." 

"  P/ease,"  he  said. 

He  turned  his  back  upon  her  and  laid  a  ;^20  note 
upon  the  little  box.  Then  he  took  up  his  hat,  and 
stood  in  front  of  the  little  girl  with  whom  he  had 
fancied  himself  years  ago  to  be  in  love  for  ever. 

He  raised  the  tired  hand  to  his  lips,  kissed  it,  and 
fi:mbled  his  way  down  the  creaking  stairs  through  a 
mist  of  tears. 


CHAPTER  VII 

With  his  anti-breakfast  cup  of  tea  Blundell  found 
a  letter  from  his  wife. 

"Darling  Old  Boy"  (it  read),— "Welcome,  a 
thousand  welcomes.  I  have  no  words  to  tell  you 
how  disappointed  I  was  to  get  your  telegram.  I'm 
afraid  I  shall  be  obliged  to  cry  myself  to  sleep 
to-night.  But  of  course  business  must  be  attended 
to,  mustn't  it  ?  Bother  business  !  I  want  you  to 
find  this  little  note  when  you  wake,  so  if  I  wish  to 
catch  the  early  post  I  must  fly  with  it  to  the  post 
ofiice.  But  I  have  just  time  to  say  what  you 
already  know — that  I  love  you  more  than  ever, 
and  just  long  to  see  you  with  all  my  might. — Your 
own  "  Betty. 

"  Wire  your  train  in  any  case,  sweetheart." 

Blundell  kissed  the  little  note  several  times,  and 

repeated  to  himself,    a    pleasant   warmth    pcrvaJing 

him :    "  Dear    little    Betty,   how   she   loves   me,   how 

246 


HDam's  Clap  247 

she  loves  me !  I'll  get  a  red  tie,  I  think.  Milly 
likes  me  in  a  red  tie." 

With  the  unaccustomed  hum  of  London  in  his 
ears,  Blundell  tumbled  impatiently  out  of  bed, 
eager  not  to  waste  time.  He  got  into  his  dressing- 
gown  and  slippers,  but  before  going  along  the 
corridor  to  the  bathroom  he  did  his  hair  carefully, 
with  wet  brushes,  taking  immense  pains  to  get  a 
parting  in  the  centre  of  his  head.  No  decently- 
trained  man  ever  allows  himself  to  be  seen  with 
rumpled  hair. 

He  found  the  bath  ready  for  him,  and  as  he  lay 
in  the  hot  water  with  the  cold  tap  turned  on,  he 
remembered,  with  some  annoyance,  that  he  had 
parted,  in  a  moment  of  natural  emotion,  with 
twenty  of  his  hard-earned  sovereigns  in  the  early 
hours  of  the  morning.  With  some  of  it — a 
sovereign,  perhaps  two — he  had  intended  to  buy 
some  pretty  little  silver  thing  for  Betty  at 
Aspray's,  a  silver-bound  note-book  to  hang  on 
her  chatelaine,  or  a  silver  pencil — at  any  rate, 
something  to  mark  the  importance  of  his  return, 
and  to  let  her  see  how  dearly  he  loved  her.  With 
some  of  the  rest — eight  or  nine  sovereigns,  perhaps 
— he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  get  for  himself  a 
few  quite  necessary  things — pipes,  a  couple  of  boxes 


248  SDam's  Cla^ 

of  cigars,  a  few  hundred  cigarettes,  some  ties  and 
socks — not  Odoesque,  but  nearly — and  so  on. 

Sentimentality,  or,  as  he  put  it,  chivalry,  rendered 
such  purchases  impossible,  or  rather  it  rendered 
the  gift  impossible.  The  other  things  were 
Essential. 

He  was  not  in  the  best  of  tempers  whea  he 
returned  to  his  bedroom.  Having  started  the  day 
badly,  the  tactics  of  his  stud — next  to  a  woman 
the  most  unnecessarily  elusive  institution  on  earth 
— didn't  improve  his  temper.  As  he  groped  about 
under  the  dressing  -  table  for  it  his  curses  were 
picturesque  and  ingenious,  and  when,  after  a 
quarter  of  an  hour's  hunt  on  his  hands  and  knees, 
it  rolled  out  of  the  bottom  of  his  trousers  with  a 
grin,  they  became  positively  phosphorescent. 

At  breakfast  his  eggs  were  hard-boiled  and  his 
coffee  distinctly  muddy.  At  the  next  table  an 
American,  with  a  more  than  usually  horrid  accent, 
read  his  mail  aloud  to  his  Vi'ife,  and  with  blatant 
exultation  announced  to  the  whole  world  that,  by 
the  sale  of  certain  shares,  he  was  the  richer  by 
several  hundred  thousand  dollars. 

Finally,  the  waiter  upset  the  milk  over  the  table, 
and  Blundell,  knowing  tliat  he  v/ould  have  paid  a 
proportion  of  the  ground-rent  of  the  hotel  for  a  ycai 


Beam's  Cla^  249 

when  he  settled  for  the  breakfast  he  had  not  eaten, 
rose,  threw  a  string  of  poop-oaths  at  the  German's 
head,  and  stumped  angrily  down  -  stairs  to  the 
smoking-room. 

It  was  half-past  nine.  It  was  necessary  to  kill 
three  hours  and  a  half  Blundcll  felt  no  desire  to 
leave  the  hotel.  London  was  no  longer  in  his  blood. 
It  was  all  too  hopelessly  lonely.  No  man  who  has 
been  a  somebody  can  stomach  being  a  nonentity,  an 
atom.  lie  loathed  the  place,  its  crowd,  its  din,  its 
smells,  its  ugliness. 

With  an  air  of  aggression  he  lit  a  pipe  and  collected 
all  the  morning  papers  upon  which  he  could  lay  his 
hands.  The  first  one,  a  halfpenny  paper,  made  him 
scoff  loudly.  It  was  composed  of  blood  tabloids, 
and  snippets  of  snobbery,  badly-worded  letters  from 
readers  about  such  trivial  matters  as  the  Post  Office, 
the  linnet  that  sang  at  midnight,  and  the  methods 
of  an  effete  Government,  and  a  leader,  obviously 
written  by  a  precocious  provincial  journalist,  on  a 
subject  that  it  was  impertinent  of  him  to  discuss. 
The  only  thing  in  it  that  arrested  his  attention  was 
a  notice  of  a  play  by  a  loading  playv/right  which  h.ad 
been  rroduced  the  i)rev:"ous  rA'Ai':.  at  a  1  ading  Vv'e-t 
End  tl^catre.  I'he  writer  devoted  the  whole  of  his 
space   to   proving  how^   much  better  he   could   have 


250  Beam's  Clai? 

written  the  play  himself,  and  mentioned  in  his  last 
line  that  it  was  only  saved  from  being  hissed  off  the 
stage  by  the  actors. 

For  the  fun  of  the  thing,  Blundell  read  the  notices 
in  all  the  other  papers,  and  was  amused  to  see  that 
none  of  them  agreed  with  the  halfpenny  writer,  or 
with  anybody  else.  A  big  daily,  in  devoting  two 
columns  to  exuberant  eulogies  of  the  play,  mentioned 
that,  alas  !  it  was  almost  wrecked  by  the  acting.  A 
third  paper  stated,  sweepingly,  that  both  the  play 
and  the  acting  were  beneath  contempt. 

As  time  went  on  Blundell's  anger  and  wounded 
pride  slipped  away,  and  a  kind  of  excitement  took 
their  place.  He  began  to  finger  his  tie  and  ask 
himself  again  and  again  what  on  earth  Milly  could 
possibly  want  to  see  him  about. 

"  Women  are  such  extraordinary  people,"  he  said 
to  himself,  "  they  never  forget.  Their  minds  are 
like  the  boxes  that  children  keep  under  lock  and 
key,  filled  with  the  utterly  unessential  things.  They 
will  lose  their  engagement-ring  in  which  there  are 
three  fairly  respectable  stones  with  very  little  regret. 
But  they  wouldn't  part  with  a  rose  given  to  them  by 
some  disreputable  lover  for  a  thousand  diamond.^. 
.  .  .  Those  were  jolly  days,  by  Gad !  What  an 
unholy   cad    Cator   was !       I    suppose    if    I    hadn't 


sympathised  somebody  else  would  have  done  so. 
What  a  near  thing  it  was  that  night  at  the  Grosvenor. 
She  was  always  dashed  punctual,  and  as  usual  I 
hadn't  arrived.  And  when  she  asked  for  me  the 
Gov'nor  came  down  !  By  Jove,  how  we  scuttled  ! 
Good  old  Milly !  She's  got  that  incident  stuffed 
away  in  her  box,  I'll  bet  a  pony.  .  .  .  Why  the 
dickens  does  she  want  to  see  me  ?  .  .  .  I  suppose  I 
ought  to  catch  the  train  down  to  Betty  to-night? 
Otherwise  I'd  suggest  taking  Milly  to  a  theatre.  I'd 
like  to  do  a  theatre  with  her  again — just  for  auld 
lang  s)'ne.  Oh,  well,  I  must  do  my  hair  again,  I 
suppose." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

Blundell  walked  as  far  as  Hyde  Park  Corner. 
London  was  wearing  its  usual  midsummer  appear- 
ance. The  sun  poured  down  upon  Piccadilly. 
Motor  'buses,  with  their  offensive  smell  and  horrid 
rattle,  m.ade  their  way  up  the  hill.  Cabs,  empty,  and 
likely  to  remain  so,  crawled,  like  tired  flies,  close 
to  the  kerb,  wearing  holland  covers,  with  fringes 
hanging  over  the  front.  Most  of  the  clubs  were 
closed  for  new  decorations, 

Americans  with  padded  shoulders,  carrying 
kodaks,  hurried  along,  taking  quick,  eager  glances 
at  the  places  of  any  interest.  And  the  man  whose 
business  or  profession  demanded  his  presence,  went 
about  his  work  in  a  straw  hat,   minus  waistcoat. 

At    H}-de    Park  Corner,  Blundell  got    into  a  cab 

and   drove    to    his    flat    in    Addison    Road.     A    few 

actors    ambled     about     the     Row    on     safe     hacks, 

un^.asily,  and  the  dried  grass  in  Kensington   Gardens 

was  spotted   v.'ith   the   white  frocks   of  nurse-maids 

and  children. 

252 


B&am'9  Cla^  253 

Parliament  had  just  risen,  and  London,  more 
crowded  than  ever,  was  in  that  deplorable  state  that 
is  known  as  "  empty." 

Almost  every  shop  in  that  strange,  giddy  and 
dangerous  thoroughfare,  Kensington  High  Street, 
was  undergoing  its  Annual  Summer  Sale,  and  hosts 
of  women  of  all  ages  crowded  round  them,  peering 
knowingly  at  the  windows. 

Hammersmith  sent  its  contingent  ;  and  West 
Kensington,  poor  but  proud  ;  Chelsea,  and  the  lost 
regions  on  the  wrong  side  of  the  water.  Even  to 
Blundell  there  was  a  subtle  pathos  in  the  sight.  He 
knew  also  the  difficult}'  of  keeping  up  appearances 
with  very  little  to  do  it  on. 

His  heart  beat  more  quickly  as  he  nearcd 
Uxbridge  Mansions,  Addison  Gardens.  He  could 
remember  the  glow  of  pride  which  spread  over  him 
when  he  drove  up  to  them  with  Iletty,  after  their 
honeymoon.  Their  windows  were  small,  but  the 
bricks  were  red  and  the  bells  were  electric,  and  the 
board  in  the  hall  contained  one  Honourable  and  one 
Surgeon-General. 

Betty  had  thought  cvcrytlnng  very  charming,  and 
he  remembered,  with  a  laugh,  that  she  put  merely 
Uxiiridge  Llansions,  \V.,  on  her  note-par.er,  and  left 
Addison  Gardens,  Hammersmith,  out.     It  didn't  do 


254  Beam's  C\n^ 

away  with  the  fact  that  it  was  a  bare  three-shilling 
cab  fare  from  the  theatres. 

They  had  been  very  happy  there  together  for 
three  months.  His  mother,  who  didn't  get  on 
particularly  well  with  Betty,  and  her  mother,  who 
didn't  get  on  particularly  well  with  him,  had  both 
stayed  there  at  different  times.  Ah,  those  were 
golden  days  ! 

The  flat  was  on  the  third  floor.  There  was  a  new 
porter  in  the  old  porter's  clothes.  He  knew  this  by 
the  sack  under  his  arms,  and  by  the  trousers,  which, 
although  they  were  turned  up,  were  still  too  long  by 
a  couple  of  inches. 

He  instinctively  felt  for  his  latchkey.  It  seemed 
absurd  to  ring  the  bell  of  his  own  place  like  any 
stranger. 

He  asked  for  Mrs.  Cator,  and  was  shown  into  the 
little  drawing-room  in  which  he  had  taken  such  a 
pride.  He  stood  on  the  rug  in  front  of  the  fire- 
place— it  was  a  bargain  from  one  of  Hampton's  sales 
— and  surveyed  the  room.  His  thoughts  flew  back  to 
the  morning,  several  days  before  his  marriage,  when, 
with  dear  old  Fawcett,  he  had  hung  the  pictures, 
pipe  in  mouth,  cost  off,  sleeves  rolled  up,  and  had 
arranged  the  furniture — which  Betty  had  afterwards 
rearranged  in  the  usual  woman's  way. 


H&ain'B  Cla^  255 

One  of  the  pictures  was  crooked.  With  a  lump 
of  sentimcntaHt}-  in  his  throat,  lie  crossed  the  room 
and  put  it  straight  with  the  tip  of  his  finger.  The 
thin-legged  writing-desk  that  he  had  given  to  Betty 
on  her  birthday — tlie  first  birthday,  so  far  as  he  was 
concerned — was  open.  Many  of  Mrs.  Gator's  letters 
were  lying  upon  it.  In  a  pigeon-hole  he  saw  a 
number  of  let'.ers  in  his  wife's  handwriting.  He 
took  them  up  them  and  kissed  them.  Hearing  a 
step  in  the  passage,  he  slipped  them,  with  a  smile, 
into  his  pocket,  and  turned  expectantly  towards  the 
door. 

Milly  Cator  came  forward  with  outstretched  hand. 

"  Evelyn,"  she  said,  with  a  ring  of  pleasure  in  her 
honest  voice,  "  hov/  nice  to  see  you  again," 

Slightly  chilled  at  the  almost  sisterly  greeting, 
Blundell  took  her  hand.  "Thanks,"  he  said.  "  It  is 
good  to  be  hom.e." 

He  had  rehearsed  a  very  different  scene.  He 
quite  expected  that  she  would  have  flung  her  arms 
round  his  neck  with  tears,  and  he  had  intended  to 
kiss  her  on  her  cheek,  and  pat  her  shoulder,  and  talk 
in  a  fatherly  way  of  what  might  have  been. 

As  it  was,  I^.Iilly  stood  before  him  beaming  with 
jiealth  and  c'iCerf.ilncss.  x-\lmost  aggressively  -ane. 
He  felt  aggrieved.     He  felt  as  most  of  us  feel  when, 


2  56  Beam's  (riai5 

upon  opening  a  smartly-got-up  parcel,  tied  carefully, 
sealed  here  and  there,  and  marked  "  Fragile,"  "  With 
care,"  a  sample  of  patent  medicines  is  discovered. 

"  How  well  and  brown  you  are  looking,  dear  old 
boy,"  said  Milly,  sitting  down.  "You've  evidently 
had  a  very  good  time." 

Blundell  assumed  a  woebegone  expression. 

"  Does  a  man  usually  have  a  good  time  when  he 
is  away  from  the  woman  he  loves  better  than  his 
life  for  three  years — only  three  months  married?  I've 
had  a  beastly  time,  thanks." 

Mrs.  Cator's  face  flushed  slightly,  and  her  thoughts 
flew  uneasily  to  the  pigeon-hole  of  the  writing-desk. 

"  Oh,"  she  said,  "  yes,  yes,  of  course.  I  forgot 
Betty  for  a  moment." 

"I  have  never  forgotten  Betty  for  an  instant," 
said  Blundell.  "  When  a  man  marries  for  love,  you 
know,  penal  servitude  is  not  worse  than  separation." 

There  was  a  slight  pause.  Mrs.  Cator,  unable  to 
clear  her  mind  of  some  gladness  that  the  man  whom 
she  had  expected  to  wait  for  her  freedom  should 
have  married  a  woman  so  unworthy  as  Betty, 
v/ondered  what  he  would  say  if  he  could  see  the 
bundle  of  letters. 

Blundell,  not  altogether  with  intention,  began  to 
frame  sentences  likely  to  give  pain   to  the  woman 


Beam's  Clai?  257 

who  seemed  to  have  forgotten  that  he  had  behaved 
badly  to  her. 

The  temptation  to  put  the  letters  in  Blundell's 
hands,  and  so,  while  killing  his  love  for  his  wife,  very 
possibly  regain  some  of  it  herself,  was  very  strong. 
Being  the  man  for  whom  she  had  sacrificed  some- 
thing more  than  her  self-respect,  Mrs.  Cator  still 
loved  Blundell.     It  is  the  way  of  women. 

"  You'll  stay  to  lunch,  of  course,"  she  said  brightly. 

"I  can't,  thanks  very  much,"  said  Blundell,  who 
had  made  arrangements  to  do  so,  "  I  want  to  catch 
the  afternoon  train  into  the  country.  You  see  if  I 
hadn't  ...  if  you  hadn't,  ...  I  should  have  gone 
down  last  night,  only  that  I  wanted  to  be  of  use 
to  you." 

Mrs.  Cator  fidgeted  with  her  fingers. 

"  It  was  kind  of  you  to  wait,"  she  said.  "  The  fact 
is,  Betty  wanted  me  to  see  you  to  get  you  to  take 
down  a  parcel — quite  a  small  one — of  things  I  have 
been  getting  for  her  in  town.  As  you  are  in  such  a 
hurry,  perhaps  I  had  better  get  it  for  you  at  once." 

"Thanks,"  said  Blundell,  rising  and  opening  the 
door. 

Again  Mrs.  Cator's  thoughts  travelled  in  the 
direction  of  the  pigeon-hole.  After  a  brief,  sharp 
struggle,  the  best  that  was  in  her  won — there  was 


258  Beam's  Cla^ 

very  little  that  was  not  best — and  she  rose  with  a 
smile  and  went  to  the  door. 

"  How  glad  she  will  be  to  get  you  back  again,"  she 
said,  as  sb«^  went  out. 

Blundell  returned  to  the  rug  in  front  of  the  fire- 
place, in  an  extremely  irritable  frame  of  mind.  For 
Milly's  sake  he  had  stayed  one  night  away  from  his 
wife,  had  been  put  to  the  expense  of  an  hotel  bill, 
extra  cab  fares^  and  had  thrown  awa}-  ;^20  of  his 
hard-earned  money  from  purely  mistaken  ideas  of 
philanthropy. 

"  And  we  might  have  had  such  a  jolly  afternoon 
and  evening,"  he  said  to  himself 

In  the  little  dining-room  of  the  flat,  Mrs.  Cator, 
with  the  tears  streaming  down  her  cheeks,  spread 
out  a  telegram  that  she  had  received  the  previous 
morning.     It  was  from  IJetty. 

"  Wire  to  Evelyn  and  ask  him  to  see  you  to- 
morrow urgently.  I  do  not  want  him  down  to-night 
or  to-morrow.  Keep  him.  Very  important.  Be  sure 
you  wire  me  the  train  he  decides  to  come  by." 

With  a  bitter  exclamation  Mrs.  Cator  opened  the 
Railway  Guide,  and  then  drcv/  a  telegraph-form  from 
its  case. 


a^am'5  Clat?  259 

"  He  is  leaving  by  the  2.55 — Milly,"  she  wrote. 

This  she  gave  to  her  maid  with  the  request  that  it 
might  be  sent  at  once.  She  then  went  to  her  bed- 
room, made  a  parcel  of  the  hair-nets  for  which 
Betty  had  written,  carefully  bathed  her  eyes  with 
a  sponge,  and  returned,  studiously  cheerful,  to  the 
drawing-room. 

"  Here  it  is,"  she  said,  holding  out  the  parcel. 
"  Are  you  sure  you  haven't  time  to  stay  to 
lunch  ? " 

"  Quite  sure,  thanks,"  said  Blundell.  "  I  must 
get  back  to  the  Metropole  and  put  my  things 
together.  Glad  to  see  you  looking  so  well  and 
happy." 

"  Oh,"  said  Mrs.  Gator,  "  I  never  was  happier  in 
my  life,  or  so  well.  Perhaps  I  shall  sec  something 
of  you  both  before  your  leave  is  up." 

"  Thanks.     I  hope  so.  .  .  .  Well  .  .  .  good-bye," 

«  Well,  good-bye." 

As  the  outer  door  closed  upon  him  Mrs.  Gator 
slipped  into  a  chair,  v/ilh  her  hands  over  her  eyes. 
"  He's  forgotten,"  she  cried. 

Blundell  put  up  his  stick  to  a  cab,  flung  the 
little  parcel  upon  the  seat,  g.  t  in  ai'.cr  it,  and 
slar.imed  the  doors  togctaer  aiigrily. 

"  She's  forgotten,"  he  thought. 


CHAPTER  IX 

It  was  half-past  one  when  Blundell  got  back  to 
the  M^tropole.  He  made  out  that  he  had  three 
quarters  of  an  hour  in  which  to  get  packed  and 
pay  his  bill,  and  make  some  kind  of  a  lunch. 
Lunch  was  the  most  important.  He  could  pack 
and  settle  up  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  So,  not  caring 
to  face  Birmingham,  Manchester,  and  Chicago,  he 
eschewed  the  dining-room,  and  went  down  to  the 
bar,  which  was  in  an  angle  of  the  smoking-room. 

By  this  time,  by  the  careful  application  of 
make-believe  upon  the  sore  part,  the  sting  of  dis- 
appointment caused  by  Mrs.  Cator's  normal 
reception  had  been  replaced  by  a  glow  of  virtue. 
He  had  argued  himself,  without  much  trouble,  into 
the  belief  that  he  had  let  Milly  see,  pretty  plainly, 
that  he,  at  any  rate,  had  completely  wiped  the  past 
out  of  his  mind,  for  Betty's  sake. 

"  I  did  it  rather  Vv-cll,''  he  said  to  himself,   as  he 

washed  his    hands.     "  If  I    had    let    myself  go   the 

slightest  bit,  or  sentimentalised  even  for  a  minute, 

260 


there  might  have  been  complications.  It  was  only 
by  preserving  a  strenuously  commonplace  and 
ordinary  manner  and  expression  that  I  saved  the 
situation.  Poor,  dear  old  Milly,  how  obviously  she 
was  suffering.  It  was  dashed  cruel,  but  being 
married,  and  frightfully  in  love  with  my  wife,  what 
else,  as  a  man  of  honour,  could  I  do  possibly  ?  I 
might  perhaps  have  been  a  trifle  kinder.  It  was 
rubbing  it  in  rather.  But  after  all,  it  was  best  for 
her,  poor  dear.  There  she  is,  jogging  along  fairly 
well,  trying  to  live  it  down  and  all  that.  I  should 
hate  to  have  opened  up  the  old  wound." 

Dipping  the  brushes  in  the  water,  he  redid  his 
hair  with  the  utmost  care,  and  examined  his  face 
in  the  glass  minutely.  lie  was  pleased  with  what 
he  saw,  on  the  whole.  lie  v/as  a  little  troubled 
to  find  that  his  jaw-line  was  not  so  clean  as  it 
had  been  before  he  had  left  London  three  years 
ago. 

"  This  rotten  glass,"  he  thought.  "  However,  I 
must  put  in  some  ecca  down  in  the  country 
Perhaps  that  farmer  man  of  whom  Betty  wrote 
can  lend  me  a  mount,  and  I  daresay  the  local 
padre  will  give  me  some  tennis.  Of  course,  if  the 
worst  comes  to  the  worst,  I  must  get  Betty  to 
come   for  some  stiff  tramps.     She  dislikes  walking, 


262  Bbam'0  Clap 

dear  little  girl,  but  she'll  do  anything  for  mc.  I 
should  loathe  to  get  fat." 

With  a  head  as  shiny  and  flat  as  the  back  of  a 
seal,  Blundell  left  tiie  wash -and -brush -up  place, 
and  passed  into  the  bar. 

A  very  smart  young  person,  wearing  a  blouse 
transparent  at  the  neck,  with  sleeves  cut  short  above 
the  elbow,  was  sitting  behind  the  counter,  reading  a 
novel.  She  glanced  haughtily  and  with  a  touch  of 
insolence  at  Blundell,  without,  as  a  matter  of  fact, 
wishing  to  convey  either  the  one  or  the  other.  She 
had  been  told,  by  one  of  her  regular  customers, 
that  she  was  exactly  like  Zoe  Dane,  who  always 
played  duchesses  in  musical  pieces,  and  she 
religiousl}'  copied  that  young  woman's  expression. 

Blundell  felt  mildly  amused.  He  hatted  the 
barmaid  in  his  best   manner, 

"  May  I  venture  to  ask  you  to  be  so  kind  as  to 
provide  me  with  some  of  your  excellent  shrimp 
sandwiches  and  a  brandy-and-soda? "  he  asked. 

The  young  woman's  mouth  became  unsteady. 
She  did  not  permit  it  to  break  into  a  smile.  Her 
prototype  never  smiled.  In  that,  at  least,  she  was 
different  from  every  other  person  of  her  sex  upon 
the  musical  comedy  stage — smiling  and  sitting  to 
photographers    in    indelicate    costumes     being     the 


BDam'6  Gla)?  263 

only  two  talents  required  of  "  artistes  "  in  that  class 
of  entertainment. 

She  rose  languidly  from  her  chair. 

"Certainly,"  she  replied.  "  liut  do  you  think 
you're  old  enough  for  a  brandy-and-soda  ? " 

Blundell  laughed.  "  Ah,  ha  !  a  wit,  a  wit,"  he 
said. 

With  a  natural  playfulness  that  occasionally  got 
the  better  of  her  pose,  she  fired  the  soda-water 
cork  at  him. 

"An  outer,"  said  Blundell,  rubbing  his  ear.  "You 
didn't  allow  for  the  wind  kicked  up  by  that  electric 
fan.     Have  another  shot." 

She  put  his  glass  on  the  marble-topped  counter 
and  expertly  caught  up  three  sandwiches  with  a 
silver  instrument.  These  she  placed  upon  a  plate 
stamped  with  the  crest  of  the  hotel — it  did  not 
belong  to  the  Gordon  family — and  dropped  a  piece 
of  parsley  by  the  side  of  them.  She  then  returned 
to  her  chair  and  her  novel. 

Blundell,  who  felt  more  at  home  with  women 
of  her  class  than  with  women  of  his  own,  studied 
her  carefully  as  he  ate  his  lunch.  She  wore  her 
clothes  well,  but  like  every  Englishwoman,  was 
unable  to  wear  short  sleeves  in  daylight  without 
looking   vulgar.      It  is  a  fashion   that  was  created 


264  H&am'5  Cla^ 

in  Paris.  As  everybody  knows,  every  Frenchwoman 
is  born  wearing  a  pair  of  gloves. 

"  A  jolly  little  bar  this,"  said  Blundell  brightly. 

"  Yes  ? "  The  little  girl  did  not  take  her  eyes 
away  from  her  book. 

"What  sort  of  people  generally  come  here  ? " 

"  All  sorts,"  she  replied,  with  a  drawl.  "  But 
mostly  men  who  are  known  to  the  p'leece  as  '  on 
the  market.'" 

"On  the  market?"  asked  Blundell.  "What's 
that  ? " 

"  Oh,"  she  said,  assuming  boredom  extremely 
well,  "the  term  is  applied  to  men  of  good  family 
who  haven't  any  money  and  who  never  pay,  but 
who  live  like  fighting  cocks  at  other  people's 
expense." 

"  Are  there  many  of  'em  in  London  ? " 

The  girl  looked  at  Blundell  curiously. 

"  Hundreds,"  she  replied.  "  They  are  mostly 
young,  with  double-barrelled  names,  and  the  only 
work  they  ever  do  is  to  polish  up  their  hyphens. 
The  men  they  go  about  with  are  younger  than 
themselves.  When  they  are  no  longer  useful 
they  are  no  longer  young,  although  only  a  fort- 
night older,  perhaps.  Two  of  the  best-known 
O.T.M.'s  in    town    lived    here  for  six  months.      On 


HDam's  Cla^  265 

condition  that  they  left  and  never  came  back,  the 
Manager  let  them  o(T  the  whole  of  the  money 
they  owed  him." 

"  Where  did  they  (^o  then  ?  " 

"  Well,  they  were  ei^^hteen  months  in  this  street 
altogether  without  paying  a  shilling.  There  are 
two  other  hotels,  you  see." 

"  But,  good  heavens  1  why  aren't  they  proceeded 
against  ?  " 

'"Because,"  replied  the  girl,  v/hose  knov/ledge  of 
humanity  was  even  greater  than  her  knowledge  of 
liquors,  "  no  one  cares  to  be  made  to  look  foolish 
in  the  police  reports," 

Blundell  was  interested.  "You  get  to  know  men 
pretty  well  in  this  profession,  I  suppose  ? "  he  asked. 

"  Business,"  said  the  girl  sharply,  "  not  profession." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon." 

"  Well,  rather,  what  do  you  think  ?  From  the 
way  they  treat  me  I  can  very  nearly  always  tell 
where  they  were  brought  up." 

"Really?     By  Jove!" 

The  girl  made  a  book-marker  of  a  theatre-card 
and  turned  towards  Blundell  with  an  air  of  almost 
royal  condescension. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "and  you'd  be  surprised  hov/ 
many    men    who    would    be    described    as    of    no 


266  Beam's  Cla^ 

occupation,  or  as  heirs  to  peerages,  in  the 
police  courts  are  the  worst  bounders  of  all.  They 
think  that  because  a  lady  'as  .  .  .  has  to  earn  a 
living  by  standing  behind  a  bar  she  may  be  a 
target  for  their  coarse  jokes  and  familiar  leers. 
The  feller  I  hate  more  than  most  is  the  one  who 
belongs  to  the  pussy  class,  you  know  what  I  mean 
—  the  unwashed,  gaudily  -  dressed,  long  -  haired, 
effeminate  a-eature  who  makes  eyes  and  throws 
darts.  .  .  ." 

"  Throws  darts  ?  "  echoed  Blundell. 

*'  I  mean,  puts  the  tip  of  his  forefinger  on  the 
tip  of  his  thumb  and  wriggles.  Grrh !  He's  a 
horror.  London's  full  of  him.  Heaps  of  'em 
'  walk  on '  at  the  theatre  and  talk  Art  with  a 
capital  H.  They  call  one  another  pet  names  and 
wear  bangles,  and  are  horribly  pleased  if  anyone 
calls  them  decadent." 

"  The  lethal  chamber  is  their  place,"  said  Blundell. 

"You're  right,"  replied  the  girl.  "Then  there's 
the  cricketer  in  the  pavilion — the  man  who  talks 
nothing  but  cricket  and  never  plays.  He  comes  in 
wearing  the  M.C.C.  colours  round  his  straw  and 
bowls  im.aginary  balls  at  me  and  asks  me,  so  that 
the  whole  place  may  hear,  whether  '  Bosanquct's 
been  in  lately  ? '  and  when  did  I  '  see    Charlie  Fry 


HDam's  Cla^  267 

Ust?'  He's  never  spoken  to  either  of  'em  in  his 
life." 

"  I  suppose  not,"  said  Bhindcll,  with  a  laut^h. 

"And  then  there's  the  old  person  with  creaking 
joints  and  skinny  neck  and  skin-tight  clothes  and 
the  miraculous  old  top-hat  balanced  on  one  ear,  a 
continual  advertisement  for  salad-oil,  who  tells  me 
'  that  the  service  is  goin'  to  the  dorgs,  be  Gad ! ' 
Poor  old  thing,  I'm  always  beastly  sorry  for  him. 
He  calls  himself  Major,  and  is  no  more  entitled  to 
it  than  that  old  screecher  with  the  long  beard  is  to 
call  himself  '  Doctor.'  I  forget  his  name,  but  he's 
the  star  turn  of  the  Radical  papers." 

"  I  knew  the  creature   you  mean,"  said  Blundell. 

He  didn't,  but  he  was  anxious  to  draw  the  girl 
out.  Her  Cockney  shrewdness  amused  him  very 
much. 

'*  The  'Varsity  man  is  healthier  than  these  others, 
but  he's  always  ragging  —  wetting  the  matches, 
putting  the  whisky  label  on  the  brandy  decanter. 
Oh,  and  you  know  —  generally  playing  the  goat. 
It  all  gives  me  work  to  do.  The  only  good  thing 
about  him  is  that  he  never  makes  suggestive  remarks, 
and  that's  something  to  be  thankful  for,  I  can  tell 
you.  ...  I  can't  quite  make  you  out,"  she  said, 
looking  at  Blundell  quizzingly. 


268  HDam's  Cla^ 

"No?"  said  Blundcll,  with  a  self-conscious  laugh. 
"  Have  a  shot." 

"Well,  you're  a  bit  difficult  to  place.  You've  got 
the  face  of  a  Londoner  with  the  mind  of  a  country- 
man, and  you  haven't  said  anything  about  yourself 
although  you've  been  here  fifteen  minutes ;  I  should 
think  that  you're  a  man  who  began  by  being  a 
gentleman  and  drifted  into  a  commercial  traveller, 
or  else  the  son  of  a  farmer  who's  been  round  the 
world  and  has  gradually  become  a  gentleman." 

Blundell  was  not  quite  sure  whether  to  be  pleased 
or  not.  He  blushed  under  the  girl's  direct  gaze  and 
laughed  a  little  too  loudly. 

"  I'm  a  sailor,"  he  said. 

"  Ah ! "  said  the  girl.  "  That  accounts  for  it. 
Fresh  air  and  a  fine  example  have  coated  over 
your  bounderism." 

"  Draw  it  mild,"  cried  Blundell. 

"  I  don't  keep  draught  beer,"  said  the  girl  quietly. 
She  still  looked  straight  at  Blundell.  "  The  time  to 
find  out  exactly  the  kind  of  man  you  are,"  she 
continued,  undaunted,  "  would  be  to  see  you  when 
you've  had  a  drop  too  much,  or  when  you  are  in 
a  frightful  rage.  I'll  make  a  bet  you're  a  bit  raw 
on  those  occasions.     Am  I  right  ?  " 

Blundell  retained  a  fixed  smile  and  an  undisturbed 


a^am's  Clap  269 

appearance.  Inwardly  he  devoutly  hoped  that  the 
girl  might  come  to  a  most  horrid  ending, 

"  By  Jove  !  I  must  fly,"  he  said.  "  I'm  catching 
the  2.50,  and  I  haven't  packed." 

"  Not  shirty  ? "  asked  the  girl,  giving  him  change 
for  a  sovereign. 

'  Oh,  good  Lord,  no." 

"  Liar,'"'  she  said  politely. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  Blundell  still  had  more  than 
comfortable  time  on  hand.  He  had  beat  a  graceful 
retreat,  feeling  that  discretion  was  the  better  part 
of  valour.  He  lit  a  cigarette  in  his  bedroom  and 
opened  his  kit-bag. 

Deep  down  in  his  boots,  Blundell  had  a  lurking 
suspicion  that  his  whole  morning  had  been  far 
from  successful.  First  Milly  Cator  and  then  that 
barmaid  woman  had  trampled  on  his  self-conceit. 
He  caught  up  a  shirt  and  flung  it  irritably  into 
the  bag.  He  caught  sight  of  himself  in  the  glass 
and  thought  that  his  collar  looked  "rotten."  He 
removed  it  savagely,  and  threw  it  with  an  oath  into 
the  empty  fireplace.  His  coat  felt  tight  under  the 
arms.  He  slipped  out  of  it  and  pitcl'.ed  it  on  to 
the  bed.     The  packet  of  letters  fell  to  the  floor. 

'^Ah!"  he  thoi;ght,  "Betty's  letters.  By  Jove! 
I  didn't  mean  to  bring  them  away.     I'm  jolly  glad 


2  70  Beam's  (Zlws 

I  have,  though.  It'll  do  me  good  to  read  the  sweet, 
fresh  outpourings  of  a  woman  who  isn't  a  wrong  'un, 
like  Milly  and  that  Httle  cat  downstairs.  .  .  .  Yes, 
I'll  dip  into  one.  At  least  I  shall  know  that  one 
woman  doesn't  think  I'm  a  hopeless  outsider." 

He  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  and  untied 
the  riband  that  bound  up  the  bundle.  The  letters 
were  arranged  in  order.  With  an  indulgent  smile 
Blundell  took  the  first  one  out  of  its  envelope. 


CHAPTER  X 

Blundell  rose  from  the  chair  by  the  window  of 
his  bedroom  in  the  Metropole,  Big  Ben  struck 
nine.  His  bags  lay  open,  and  his  clothes  and  shirts 
lay  scattered  about  the  room.  He  had  stopped  in 
the  middle  of  his  packing  to  read  Betty's  letters  to 
her  friend. 

As  he  read — tea  unthought  of,  dinner  unthought 
of — the  veins  of  anger,  disgust,  contempt,  and  self- 
pity  stood  out  in  knots  upon  his  forehead.  The 
references  to  himself  wounded  him  far  more  terribly 
than  the  indiscreet  analysis  of  her  horrid  habits. 
This  only  made  him  feci  righteously  indignant, 
although  it  elevated  him  in  his  own  eyes  into 
the  position  of  a  man  of  high  morality  and 
unimpeachable  rectitude. 

Cramped  and  tired,  he  rose  from  his  chair  by  the 
window,  being  unab'C  to  sec.     The  11 'hi  had  f i^ed. 

For  some  time  he  stood  in  t'iic  iiitlc,  stiffly- 
furnished  room  in  tb.e  dark.     Fie  knew  that  he  had 

271 


272  a^am's  cias 

arrived  at  the  end  of  a  road  which  branched  off  in 
the  shape  of  a  Y  into  two  others.  Along  one  of 
these  he  could  see  himself  and  Betty  together,  yet 
alone.  Along  the  other  there  was  no  Betty  to  be 
seen. 

It  was  a  big  moment.  Determined  to  make  the 
most  of  it,  even  although  the  shock  of  disillusion- 
ment gave  him  exquisite  pain,  he  indulged  in  the 
pleasure  of  standing  outside  himself,  and  looking  at 
himself  with  the  eyes  of  a  friend — a  friend  who 
understood. 

Instead  of  the  selfish,  sensual,  commonplace, 
sentimental,  easy-going  person  he  was,  he  saw  a 
good  -  looking,  even  handsome  man,  white  all 
through,  bleeding  from  a  deep  wound  in  his 
heart — a  wound  inflicted  by  the  wife  to  whom  he 
was  so  devoted,  and  had  loved  so  faithfully ;  a 
wound  no  human  hand  could  ever  mend. 

From  the  street  beneath  a  quick,  metallic  echo 
of  hoofs  came  nerirer  and  died  av/ay,  followed 
immediately  by  oi.hcrs,  The  sound  of  trains,  an 
ugly  sound,  came  also.  In  the  passage  outside  his 
door,  bells  rang,  and  som-timcs  a  key  was  pushed 
into  the  lock  of  other  doors.  Steps  parsed  and 
repassed,  muffled  by  the  thick  carpet. 


Beam's  Cla^  273 

"  My  God  ! "  he  cried  aloud,  "  what  have  I  done 
to  deserve  this — what,  what?  I  have  never  quite 
h'ed  to  her,  even  if  I  haven't  told  her  all  the  truth. 
She  has  lied  to  me  from  the  beginning  of  all  things. 
I  have  never  been  actually  unfaithful  to  her  ;  I've 
only  been  badly  tempted,  and  have  fallen.  She  has 
been  worse  than  unfaithful  to  me  for  three  years. 
She  is  leading  a  life  a  thousand  times  more  immoral 
than  that  poor  devil  of  a  girl  from  the  tobacconist's 
shop." 

With  a  sudden  movement  he  switched  on  the 
electric  light,  drew  his  chair  beneath  it,  and  with 
blasphemy  on  his  lips  and  a  desire  to  punish  in 
his  heart,  continued  to  read. 


CHAPTER  XI 

"  I  SLEPT  the  greater  part  of  the  afternoon  away," 
the  next  letter  ran.  "  If  nothing  exciting  is  going 
forward,  I  always  lay  myself  out  for  an  afternoon's 
sleep.  It  is  a  sure  way  to  prevent  lines.  When  I 
say  sleep,  I  don't  mean  a  nap  outside  the  bed. 
That  is  really  of  little  use.  I  mean  a  long,  steady 
sleep  from  lunch  till  tea-time,  in  bed,  undressed  as 
though  it  were  night-time,  with  the  blinds  down, 
the  window  open,  and  the  air  playing  on  my  face. 

"  If  women  only  knew  it,  this  kind  of  sleep  taken 
regularly  every  day,  all  through  the  year,  is  a  great 
aid  to  keeping  young — perhaps  the  best.  There 
would  be  no  need  to  indulge  in  rest-cures  if 
women  followed  my  example,  nor  face  massage,  nor 
electric  treatment,  nor  for  any  of  the  new-fangled 
processes  one  hears  so  much  about — and  which 
are  so  expensive. 

"  That's  one  of  the  great  disadvantages  of  being 

a    mother.      Unless    the    exchequer    allows    of    an 

274 


H^am's  Clas  275 

excellent  nursery,  far  away  at  the  other  end  of  the 
house,  a  woman  catmot  get  her  proper  sleep.  I 
thank  Heaven  that  I  am  not  a  mother.  I  think  a 
child  would  completely  ruin  my  life.  I  have  nothing 
of  the  maternal  instinct.  I  never  could  stand  a  doll. 
One  Christmas  morninf;^-  I  remember  being  so  angry 
because  father,  who  thought,  I  suppose,  that  all 
children  were  the  same,  or  didn't  think,  put  a  doll  on 
my  pillow,  dressed  to  the  nines.  I  had  hoped  for  a 
book — a  book  of  adventures  by  flood  and  field — 
'  Ivanhoe '  was  the  dream  of  my  young  life — and 
with  a  yell  of  disgust  and  repugnance,  I  caught  up 
the  pink-and-white  thing,  and  flung  it  head  first 
against  the  wall.  Its  smiling  face  cracked  in  h;df, 
and  an  arm  fell  off. 

"I  wonder  if  I  sb.onl;!  have  done  the  same  thing  to 
a  child  if  I  had  found  it  on  my  pillow.  I  really 
believe  I  should. 

"  But  take  the  little  girl  in  this  cottage.  There 
you  have  a  born  mother.  Nature  marked  her  out 
for  a  mother  from  her  earliest  ir; fancy.  She  will  be 
one  of  those  women  who  thiii!:s  no  tnorc  of  having  a 
child  once  a  year  than  I  think  of  having  the  World 
every  Tuesday  mori.ing.  It  comes  to  this.  I  am 
utterly  devoid  of  the  pimieval  form  of  passion.     I 


2  76  Boams  Cla^ 

dislike  it.  It  simply  doesn't  interest  me.  I  don't 
understand  it.  Indeed,  I  go  furtlier  than  that.  If  it 
hadn't  been  the  only  possible  means  of  my  getting 
out  of  the  half-pay  atmosphere  of  home,  nothing  on 
earth  would  have  induced  me  to  marry — especially 
the  kind  of  man  Evelyn  is.  You  know  Evelyn 
slightly,  and  therefore,  no  doubt,  you  think  that  he 
is  a  most  excellent  specimen  of  English  manhood. 
I  daresay  you  are  right.  In  fact,  I  am  sure  you  are. 
He  is  an  excellent  specimen  of  English  manhood, 
or  any  other  manhood  for  that  matter.  I  can  well 
imagine  that  he  would  make  a  very  useful  kind  of 
neighbour.  If  one  flattered  him  sufficiently  he 
would  run  one's  little  messages,  roll  one's  lawn, 
take  one's  dog  for  walks,  and  make  a  cheerful  and 
fairly  efficient  fourth  at  a  game  of  Bridge. 

"But  he  is  not  the  ideal  man  to  be  married  to, 
believe  me.  He  takes  everything  as  a  matter  of 
course,  and  having  got  it  either  sleeps  or  goes  his 
way,  whistling  '  Annie  Laurie,'  or  an  air  from  the 
latest  musical  play — musical  comedy — what  do  they 
call  those  things  ?  He  wants  his  own  way  in  every- 
thing, and  nags  when  he  doesn't  get  it.  He  demands 
a  constant  supply  of  good  food,  and  grows  horribly 
sulky  and  bad-tempered  unless  his  vanity  is  fed  at 


HDam'9  Cla^  277 

stated  times  also.  He  plays  a  good  deal  more 
enthusiastically  than  he  works,  and  being  utterly 
devoid  of  a  sense  of  humour,  puts  the  wrong  inter- 
pretation on  badinage.  And  the  worst  of  it  is,  I  still 
live  in  an  atmosphere  of  small  means.  Making  both 
ends  meet  is  not  a  pastime  I  care  about.  My  metier 
is  spinstcrhood  with  unlimited  money.  I  ought  to 
travel,  and  see  the  world.  You  see,  unlike  most 
women,  I  am  intelligent,  and  therefore  quite  out 
of  the  common.  Everyone  has  a  kink.  You  know 
mine.  I  revel  in  it.  But  for  all  that,  I  am  very 
capable  of  enjoying  anything  that  is  lofty.  I  feel 
that  I  could  write  books  if  I  took  the  trouble.  I 
should  write  about  myself,  of  course.  Most  women 
do,  one  way  or  another.  And  because  I  can't  be 
bothered  to  write  books,  I  write  these  long,  indiscreet 
letters  to  you.  It's  very  unwise.  But  you  see  I 
can't  very  well  v.'rite  them  to  my  mother  or  to 
Evelyn.  My  mother  would  be  interested  and  horror- 
stricken  ;  and  I  think  Evelyn  would  hurt  me,  I 
think  he  would  rise  up  with  superb  rigiiteousness 
and  hit  me.  You  see,  he  is  so  essentially  English. 
He  considers  that  being  a  man  he  rmiy  bo  as  un- 
faithful as  he  chooses,  but  that  no  wife  has  a  right  to 
be  anyliiing  but  a  devoted  idiot.      It's  a  fine  llicory. 


2  78  Beam's  Gla^ 

"  Not,  my  dear  Milly  that  I  ever  want  to  be 
unfaithful,  but  if  I  did,  I  should,  if  only  to  feel  that 
justice  was  being  done. 

"  I  put  in  an  excellent  time  this  evening.  My  hero 
and  I  met  again.  You  will  never  guess  where.  I 
didn't  mind  a  bit  what  the  good  woman  downstairs 
might  think,  and  so  I  asked  him  in  after  dinner.  He 
came  about  nine  o'clock.  It  was  a  gorgeous  evening. 
Very  hot  and  still  and  breathless.  Just  the  kind  of 
evening  that  helps  me  immensely. 

"  I  put  the  lamp  out — a  thing  that  smokes  if  you 
turn  it  too  high,  and  smells  if  you  turn  it  too  low — 
and  brought  in  three  candles  fromi  the  bedroom.  I 
have  no  stupid  superstitions  on  the  subject  of  three 
lights.  I  really  think  this  caused  the  good  woman 
more  uneasiness  than  the  fact  that  I  was  going  to 
entertain  a  mere  farmer.  The  impropriety  part  of 
it  didn't  appeal  to  her  in  the  le;ist.  For  me — a 
'London  lady' — to  have  any  truck  with  a  couniry 
person  was  the  point.  I  told  her  I  wanted  to  ask 
him  about  his  crops. 

"I  wore  a  soft  white,  clinging  thing — a  crojs 
between  a  tea-gown  and  a  night- dress,  cut  low  at  the 
neck,  with  short  sleeves.  I  was  discovered  lying  on 
the  bola,  under  the  window. 


Beam's  Clai?  279 

"He  came  in  timidly,  tlis  mood  had  chanr^cd 
again.  He  was  no  longer  just  tlie  delighted  boy, 
or  the  man  roused.  He  was  the  man  in  love.  A 
man  in  love  is  always  seen  to  the  worst  advantage. 
He  sits  in  awkward  positions,  and  is  quiet,  dull,  and 
sentimental.  My  monster  was  exactly  like  them  all. 
I  thought  till  this  evening  that  it  was  impossible  for 
him  to  look  awkward.  I  was  wrong.  He  not  only 
looked  more  awkward  than  most  men  in  love — he 
looked  more  foolish. 

"And  yet  he  was  not  uninteresting,  because  it  was 
so  palpably  his  first  attack.  I  read  to  him  for  an 
hour,  I  chose  Rossetti — not  Dante  Gabriel.  His 
work  is  so  mad,  so  trick)',  so  utterly  unmeaning. 
But  Christina.  I  read  well  for  a  woman.  I  under- 
stand the  value  of  a  semicolon.  And  as  I  read,  lie 
sat  and  watched  the  movement  of  my  lips.  He 
hung  on  the  sound  of  my  voice  without  listening  to 
the  words,  and  I  might  just  as  well  have  been 
reading  the  sorriest  prose.  I  read  because  I  had 
pretty  well   nxi^iausted  all  topics  of  conversation. 

"  When  I  looked  at  him — J  looked  at  him  frequently 
—  I  could  see  a  blaze  in  his  eyes.  I  believed  that  if 
I  had  [-ut  liiy  hand  on  ]\v.:,  he  wovild  have  seized  nu. 
and  ki^^cd  my  bieath  away.     1   longed   to  do  it,      i 


28o  Beam's  Cla^ 

longed,  just  as  a  child  does  when  it  is  alone  with  a  fire, 
to  throw  on  a  log  and  see  the  flare.  It  required  only 
the  faintest  movements  to  affect  him.  I  had  only  to 
move  from  my  back  to  my  side,  facing  him  slowly 
like  a  cat,  to  see  him  tremble  suddenly.  I  want  you 
to  understand  that  he  is  deeply  ashamed  of  any 
feeling  of  passion.  I  can  always  see  him  struggling 
against  it.  You  see,  he  has  elevated  me  to  the 
pedestal  of  a  saint.  I  am  no  woman.  I  am  a 
goddess !  All  men  who  love  for  the  first  time — all 
men  of  imagination,  all  unconscious  poets— do  this. 
Being  just  a  woman,  I  like  it,  naturally.  So  would 
you.  So  you  did,  and  very  likely  do.  Every  Jill 
nas  her  Jack,  they  say.  But  I  believe  the 
worshipper  has  the  best  time — until  he  has  got  all 
he  wants,  and  so  ceases  to  worship.  And  even  then 
it  is  the  one  who  was  worshipped  who  has  the  worst 
time.     It  is  always  the  woman  who  p  ivs. 

"You  can  understand — knowing  that  he  is  one  of 
those  imaginative,  poetic  people  who  like  to  think  of 
women  as  filmy  things,  who  shudder  to  see  them  eat 
and  drink,  and  grow  almost  apoplectic  at  the  sight 
of  a  red-faced,  untidy  -  headed  hoclcey  girl — how 
gently,  how  subtly  I  had  to  set  to  work.  But  I 
succeeded  admirably,  'igainst  his  will,  utterly  against 


HDam's  Cla^  281 

his  will,  and  I  saw  him  dig  his  nails  into  his  hands 
several  times.  Poor  lad  !  how  he  will  loathe  himself 
for  it  when  he  goes  home.  He  would  shoot  anybody 
who  told  him  I  was  the  hard-thinking  cause  of  it. 

"  lie  bent  over  my  hand  when  he  was  going,  and 
kissed  it  lightly,  with  the  simple  grace  and  adoration 
of  a  S(  hool-boy,  and  then  rushed  helter-skelter  away. 

"  I  took  the  candles  into  my  bedroom,  and  un- 
dressed slowly.  Honestly  and  truly,  this  man  is  the 
only  one  I  have  ever  met  who  has  come  near  to 
stirring  what  little  power  for  loving  there  is  in  my 
heart.  If  I  were  endowed,  or  cursed,  whichever  you 
like,  with  the  maternal  instinct,  I  should  be  as  much 
in  love  with  John  Ashley  as  John  Ashley  is  in  love 
with  me.  As  it  is,  he  makes  me  rather  asliamed  of 
myself  He  is  such  a  genuine  soul.  Indeed,  he  is 
1.  man  at  his  best.  I  feci  at  this  moment  that  I 
should  like  to  go  to  the  bank  of  some  river,  swim 
across  it  and  bacic,  and  come  out  cleansed,  just  as 
much  woman  as  he  is  man. 

*'  Together  equally  genuine,  equally  simple, 
equally  human,  equally  in  love,  vv]:at  a  heaven 
would  earth  be  for  us.  I  can't  ndp  thinking 
sometimes  that  a  v/oman  misses  something 
that     is     ulterly     swc„t     who     docs     not     bring     a 


282  SDain's  Clag 

child  into  the  world.  Is  she  merely  a  bud  until 
then  ?  Is  it  that  which  causes  her  to  break  into 
blossom  ?  There  is  a  minor  note  reverberating 
horribly  sadly  through  my  body  to-night.  I  feel 
like  a  beautiful  bell  without  a  tongue.  I  cannot 
sound  a  true,  quivering  note.  I  am  minus  the  one 
essential  that  goes  to  make  a  woman  utterly 
womanly. 

"  I  think  this  is  the  only  time  in  my  life  that  I  have 
wished  painfully,  with  a  sharp,  hot  pricking,  that  I 
could  go  back  and  begin  all  over  again.  I  would  be 
different.  I  would  try  so  hard  to  be  clean.  God  ! 
how  I  would  try ! 

"  I  wonder  v/hether,  if  I  could  go  back,  it  would  be 
any  good.  I  am  afraid  not.  As  1  am,  so  was  I 
brought  into  the  world,  I  think,  with  the  feeling  of 
that  man's  honest  eyes  burning  my  checks  deliciously, 
that  I  would  rather  be  ugly  and  womanly,  than 
beautiful  and  .  .  . 

"  Wl'iat's  that?  I  believe  I  can  hear  him  under  the 
window  of  my  sitting-room.      I  must  gu  and  see." 


CHAPTER  XII 

"  I  CREPT  across  the  creakinp^  room  gingerly, 
because  my  feet  were  bare ;  gathered  my  night- 
gown close,  shook  my  hair  away  from  my  face,  and 
peeped  behin<i  the  curtain. 

"  The  window  was  open.  The  moon  was  sitting 
in  a  sky  as  clear  as  water,  flooding  the  earth 
with  her  light,  surrounded  by  a  thousand  thousand 
stars  I  could  count  the  loose  stones  on  the 
road.  I  could  see  every  sleepy  ear  of  corn  to  the 
right  and  left,  and  far  in  front  of  me.  I  could  see 
every  leaf  in  every  tree  lying  still  in  sleep  against 
the  deep  blue  of  tlic  sky.  They  threw  their 
shadows  in  front  of  tb-cm  as  though  the  sun  and 
not  the  moon  were  shining.  It  was  all  quite  still, 
I  had  a  feeling  that  it  would  be  unkind  not  to 
hold  my  breath  in  case  it  should  wake  up  every- 
thing. The  benuty,  the  simplicity,  liie  trustfulness 
of    it    all     made    me    forget    for    a    moment    what 

bro'.g.it  me  to  the  window. 

2S3 


284  H&am's  Clap 

"  I  heard  a  long  sigh  and  a  crunching  sound.  I 
leant  slightly  forward.  There  stood  the  man  I 
wished  I  could  love  as  no  woman  had  ever  loved 
a  man  before — leaning  against  a  tree,  looking  up 
at  my  window.  In  a  whisper  the  village  clock 
struck  one.  Everything  stirred  slightly  at  the 
sound,  murmured  sleepily,  and  fell  to  sleep 
again. 

"  The  moon  shone  directly  into  my  window — 
staringly.  I  slipped  from  behind  the  curtain,  and 
stood  there  in  her  light,  with  my  hair  all  about 
my  shoulders.  I  must  have  looked  very,  very 
charming. 

"  I  saw  him  spring  a  step  forward  and  stop.  Across 
the  stilhiess  his  breathing  came  to  me — hot,  quick, 
eager.  My  heart  raced.  I  felt  as  I  had  never  felt 
in  my  life — a  child,  a  girl,  an  ordinary  sweet  girl. 

"  Neither  of  us  moved.  I  heard  the  quarter  strike. 
And  then  I  said  his  name,  faintly,  once,  twice,  and 
again.  With  his  arms  held  out  in  front  of  him,  with 
his  eyes  fixed  on  my  face,  he  came  slowly,  slowly, 
until  he  stood  under  my  window.  I  leant  over  and 
looked  down  at  him,  with  my  heart  fluttering  in  my 
mouth.  I  said  his  name  again.  And  not  like  a  man 
who    knew    what   he   was    doing,   he   put  his   hands 


B&am'5  Cla^  285 

amon^T  the  branches  of  the  thick  creeper  on  the 
wall,  and  came  up  to  me — nearer,  nearer.  And  our 
faces  were  close  together.  Our  breath  mingled 
pantingly.  He  climbed  a  little  higher,  and  put  his 
leg  over  the  window,  sitting  on  the  sill.  We  said 
nothing,  but  presently  his  hands  were  on  my 
shoulders  and  I  felt  myself  drawn  forward. 
He  held  me  tight,  and  kissed  my  lipj,  my  eyes,  my 
forehead,  my  hair,  again  and  again  and  again.  It 
was  the  sweetest  thing  that  I  had  ever  known. 
For  just  that  little  hour  I  f^lt  nearer  to  being  a 
woman  than  ever  in  my  life.  My  arms  were 
slipping  round  his  neck  when  a  bat  flapped  against 
my  face.  I  gave  a  little  cry  of  disgust,  and  drew 
back  into  the  room,  and  my  hands  over  my  eyes. 
When  I  took  them  away  1  was  alone.  And  then  I 
flung  myself  upon  my  bed  and  cried  myself  tc 
sleep." 


CHAPTER  XIII 

"  To-day  is  the  last  of  the  days  I  had  to  kill.  I 
woke  to  it  refreshed  and  rested.  The  episode  of 
the  first  hour  of  the  morning  came  back  to  me  at 
once.  But  the  feeh'ng  which  the  air,  the  moonh'ght, 
the  sentiment  had  given  me  had  departed.  It  only 
struck  me  as  intensely  funny.  I  was  'Betty  Blundell, 
nee  Trevor,  again.  I  looked  at  myself  standing 
in  ray  night-gown  and  bare  feet  in  the  moon- 
light, allowing  myself  to  be  kissed  by  that 
dear,  stupid  boy,  with  astonishment.  I  laughed  for 
minutes.  But  at  the  same  time  I  had  a  lurlcing 
desire  to  thank  my  stars  for  the  opportune  arrival 
of  that  bat! 

"  He  is  a  dear  boy.  I  defy  anybody  to  meet  him 
and  not  feci  a  little  tender  about  him.  Goodness, 
how  unwise  it  was. 

"  I     found     a    letter     from     Evelyn    waiting    for 

me.     He  tells  nic  that  they  will  put  in  this  morning 

about  midday  for  certain.      Ah,  well,  thank  Heaven 

he  will  be  going  away  quite  soon  again. 

286 


B&am's  Cla^  287 

*'  I  sent  two  wires  by  one  of  the  children.  I  didn't 
want  to  see  that  inevitable  smile  flicker  over  that 
foolish  woman's  face  at  the  post  office.  One  was 
wifely  and  welcomed  Evelyn.  The  other  you  know, 
and  I  trust  you  have  long  ago  acted  upon  it.  In 
fact,  of  course  you  have,  for  I  received  a  telegram 
from  Evelyn  saying  that  he  was  putting  up  at  the 
M6tr6pole,  and  had  business  in  London  to-morrow. 
1  wonder  how  well  you  knew  him,  my  dear.  I  shall 
get  you  to  tell  me  one  of  these  days.  He  has  often 
assured  me,  in  his  silly,  sentimental  way,  that  I  am 
the  only  woman  with  whom  he  has  ever  been  in  love. 
I  never  believed  him,  I  never  believe  anything  of 
that  kind  that  any  man  tells  me,  certainly  not  a  man 
with  reddish  hair  and  fair  skin. 

"  And  so  I  shall  have  to-day  and  most  of  to- 
morrow to  enjoy.  I  know  to  a  comma  what  kind 
of  a  mood  Evelyn  is  in.  He  has  worked  himself 
into  a  state  of  terrific  remorse  over  the  little  un- 
faithfulnesses of  the  last  three  years.  And  he  is 
saying  to  himself,  with  an  air  of  great  enjoyment 
and  well-simulated  sincerity :  '  I  am  not  worthy,  I 
am  not  worthy.'  And  all  the  while  he  is  pining  to 
know  what  you  want  to  see  him  about.  What  a 
shallow,  sentimental,  posing,  self-indulgent  pig  he  is 


288  a^am's  Cla^ 

I  can  see  him  as  I  write  this.  (It  is  six  o'clock,  and 
I  am  getting  this  ready  to  post  at  seven,  so  that  you 
may  have  it  in  the  morning.  It  will  be  my  last 
letter  in  regard  to  this  episode.)  He  is  getting  a 
shirt  out  of  his  case,  and  is  carefully  examining  it 
to  see  whether  it  is  stiff  enough,  shiny  enough  to 
v/ear.  He  will  dress  himself  carefully,  wet  his  hair 
in  his  usual  way,  dine  with  a  self-conscious  smirk  in 
a  high  collar,  and  go  to  a  music  hall  with  a  big 
cigar.  He  will  take  more  whisky  and  soda  than  is 
quite  good  for  him  during  the  evening,  and  either  go 
back  to  his  hotel  in  a  sickly,  silly  way,  or  not,  as 
the  case  may  be. 

"  His  letter  prepares  me  for  a  very  uncomfortable 
time.  These  last  three  years  have,  I  can  see,  only 
enhanced  his  selfishness,  his  coarseness  —  what  he 
calls  his  affection  —  and  his  bad  temper.  Well,  I 
suppose  I  mustn't  grumble ;  I  married  with  my 
eyes  open.     It  was  the  only  way  out. 

"  Just  before  lunch,  I  received  another  letter — a 
very  different  one.  It  was  brought  by  a  boy,  and 
was  unaddressed.  It  was  to  be  given  '  to  the  lady.' 
I'll  copy  it  out.      It  is  very  funny  ; 

"*I   love  yriu.     I  have  loved   you  since  the  world 


HDam's  Clas  289 

bej^an.  I  can't  live  unkss  you  are  my  wife.  I  want 
you,  beloved.  I  ha\e  nothing  to  offer  you  but  love. 
Tliat's  all,  but  it  is  the  greatest  love  that  man  ever 
offered  to  a  woman.  You  kissed  me  last  night ;  my 
lips  are  still  trembling.  Let  me  find  you  again  on 
your  hill,  with  the  sun  waiting  behind  you.  I  love 
you,  and  I  have  found  you,  after  all.' 

"  I  wish  I  could  give  you  some  idea  of  the  writing 
— the  great,  honest,  school-boy  writing — that  shakes 
with  his  eagerness.  I  vvonder  what  he  will  say  when 
I  tell  him  that  I  am  married,  and  that  Evelyn  arrives 
to-morrow. 

"  What  do  you  think  he  will  do  ?  Will  he  hurt  me 
do  you  think?  I  remember  I  had  a  horrid  drean 
in  which  leaves  played  a  great  part.  My  recollection 
of  it  is  very  liazy,  but  didn't  he  go  mad  or  some- 
thing ?  But  even  vvild  boys  don't  do  that  these 
timec.  He  will  soon  get  over  it,  living  as  he  does 
in  the  open  air,  and  llio  incident  will  remain  with 
liim  as  pleasantly  as  it  will  witli  me. 

"  It's  quite  marvellous  hov/  quicLly  these  days  have 
gone.  It  seems  a  century  ago  that  I  used  to  sit 
and  listen  to  Valentine  Worthing.  I  am  already 
fidgeting  to  get  back  to  blessed  London,  and  he 


290  slant's  Clap 

its  murmur,  and  feel  the  pulse  of  h  throbbing  under 
my  feet.  What's  a  hansom  look  like?  And  how 
are  they  getting  on  with  the  Ritz  Hotel  ?  It  gave 
promise  of  magnificent  hideousness.  And  do  the 
geraniums  still  hang  outside  the  Berkeley  ?  And 
is  there  any  difference  in  the  length  of  the    skirt? 

"Ten  days?  Oh,  Milly,  no,  no.  Ten  solid  years  ! 
My  calendar  lies  to  me.  I  am  ten  years  older.  I 
feel  that  everything  in  my  dear  London  will  be 
changed.  Don't,  don't  tell  me  that  it  has  changed. 
There  were  so  many  pieces  at  the  theatres  that  I 
wanted  to  see.  They  will  have  been  withdrawn 
ages  ago,  and  forgotten.  And  new  ones,  with  actors 
I  never  heard  of,  will  have  taken  their  places.  I  am 
sure  my  hair  is  streaked  with  grey.  I  shall  be 
obliged,  for  the  first  time,  to  have  it  touched. 

"  I  wish  Evel3'n  would  come.  I  wish  I  hadn't 
asked  you  to  keep  him  in  town  another  day.  I 
no  longer  want  anything  to  do  with  the  farmer 
man.  I  want  Evelyn.  I  want  to  wheedle  him  to 
leave  this  place  and  take  me  back  to  town.  I 
want  to  be  able  to  wake  in  the  morning,  and  hear 
the  rumble  of  'buses,  the  jingle  of  cabs,  the  cries 
of  paper  boys.  Bond  Street  is  in  my  blood  again. 
I  ache  for  a  sight  of  Bond  Street. 


Hbam's  Cla^  291 

"  Hurry  Evelyn  away.  Don't  keep  him.  Make 
him  come  to  me.  I  don't  suppose  you  care  two 
raps  about  him,  whatever  happened  in  the  old 
days.  Be  a  friend,  and  send  him  to  fetch  me 
away.  This  place  is  eerie.  I  can't  hear  a  sound, 
and  there's  nowhere  to  go. 

"  But  I  suppose  I  must  just  tell  you  what 
happened.  It  wouldn't  be  fair,  after  all  I  have 
told  you,  would  it?  I  waited  till  five  o'clock. 
And  then  I  went  to  the  hill— that  beastly  hill — I 
hope  for  the  last,  last  time.  The  boy,  or  man,  or 
farmer  was  waiting  there.  The  instant  he  caught 
sight  of  me  a  silly  smile  broke  out  round  his 
mouth,  and  a  damp  look  came  into  his  eyes.  He 
didn't  come  and  meet  me,  and  so  save  me  the 
troubling  of  climbing  to  the  top.  He  waited  for 
me,  looking  more  utterly  foolish  than  any  man  I 
have  ever  seen. 

"  I  was  in  no  mood  for  girlishness.  All  desire  to 
go  on  playing  had  faded.  I  wanted  to  get  rid  of 
him,  and  to  think  of  London.  To  sit  quietly,  and 
try  with  my  eyes  shut  to  conjure  up  liie  sounds 
of  London. 

"  He  opened  his  arms  as  I  came  to  the  top,  and 
stood  there  beaming.  Half  shy,  half  bold,  wholly 
idiotic.     '  Beloved  ! '  he  cried. 


292  HDam's  Cla^ 

"  I  slipped  aside  quickly,  '  My  dear  boy,  don't 
please  !  '  I  said — I'm  afraid  rather  unkindly.  '  I've 
only  just  come  to  thank  you  very  much  for 
helping  me  to  pass  the  time  till  my  husband  came 
home.  It  has  all  been  very  jolly,  and  I  hope  that 
if  ever  you  come  to  London  you  will  look  us  up. 
I  am  sure  that  my  husband  will  be  only  too  glad 
to  .  .  .' 

"  I  stopped  because  something  in  his  eyes 
frightened  me.  He  bent  forward  and  looked  at 
me  for  a  moment,  and  his  face  lost  all  its  colour. 
Then  he  tottered,  swayed  like  a  big  tree  struck  by 
lightning,  and  to  my  immense  surprise,  fell  flat  on 
his  face  in  the  grass. 

"  I  fled  !  It  was  most  uncomfortable  and 
unusual.  Of  course,  it  was  unexpected  for  him  ; 
but  what  did  he  mean  by  being  so  quite  too 
ridiculous? 

"  I  must  hurry  up  if  I  want  to  catch  the  post, 
and  I  do  want  to  do  so  awfully.  You  will  get 
tiiis  before  you  see  Evelyn.  Just  make  some 
excuse — give  him  those  hair -nets  you  said  you 
would  send  me  and  didn't,  and  p-ick  him  off  by 
the  afternoon  train.  I)ut  please  send  me  a  wire. 
Do  this  for  me,  Milly,  like  a  dear,  and  count  on  me 
for  a  similar  act  of  friendship  at  any  future  time." 


CHAPTER  XIV 

The  foIlowinfT  day  was  as  hot  in  the  country  as  it 
was  in  London,  In  London  the  heat  was  annoying. 
In  the  country  it  was  a  joy. 

Mrs.  Blundell  sang  as  she  dressed.  It  was  a 
pretty,  bird-hke  voice,  very  true,  very  h'ght,  very 
well  tutored — utterly  without  feeling.  She  dressed 
carefully.  It  took  her  half  an  hour  to  decide  which 
of  her  many  frocks  she  should  wear.  She  tried  on 
one,  and  moved  about  the  little  cramped  room  in 
it.  She  took  it  off  and  tried  on  another.  This  she 
eventually  discarded  for  the  time,  and  went  back 
for  the  first. 

It  was  the  white  dress  with  baby  ribbons.  In 
slipping  it  over  her  head,  one  of  the  hooks  caught 
in  her  hair-net.  She  fumbled  patiently,  deftly,  with 
it  for  some  moments,  singing  softly,  and  when  the 
hook  still  refused  to  let  go,  she  stamped,  and  cried 
sharply,  "  Damn  everything  that  catches  !  " 

She  sang  again  when  she  had  freed  the  hook  by 

tearing  her  net. 

293 


294  HDam'9  cias 

Many  times  during  breakfast  she  slipped  to  the 
window  and  looked  out  villagewards  for  the  boy 
who  brought  telegrams  and  butter,  bacon  and  soap, 
from  the  conglomerate  post  office.  Each  time  she 
returned  without  having  seen  him  she  sighed 
impatiently,  and  broke  into  a  smile. 

Her  appetite  was  excellent.  She  ate  two  new- 
laid  eggs  with  the  same  swift  daintiness  which 
characterised  everything  she  did.  Once  or  twice 
she  flung  her  arms  up,  threw  her  head  back,  and 
cried  under  her  breath,  "  London,  London  ! " 

She  was  arranging  flowers  in  three  coloured 
vases,  with  glass  legs,  when  there  was  a  knock 
upon  the  door. 

Mrs.  Blundell  turned  eagerly.  "  Come,"  she  said, 
dropping  the  flowers  on  the  table. 

Mrs.  Weeks  entered  with  a  kind  of  deferential 
familiarity. 

"  Give  me  the  telegram,  Mrs.  Weeks,  quickly." 

"  Ther  bean't  no  tallygum,  'm,"  said  Mrs.  Weeks, 
with  a  smile. 

Mrs.  Blundell's  hand  fell  to  her  side.  She  flushed 
angrily.  "  Oh,  well,  what  is  it,  }.Irs.  Weeks — what 
is  it  ?  " 

"  I    jest    thought    as    how,    mabbe,    ye'd    finished 


BDam'5  Glas  295 

with  your  breakfus',  'm."  The  t;ood  and  somewhat 
flustered  woman's  tone  became  apologetic. 

Mrs.  Biundell  was  too  excited  to  be  irritable  for 
long  together.  She  took  up  the  flowers  again  and 
smiled  pleasantly. 

"  Oh,  yes,  Mrs.  Weeks,  do.  I  expect  my  husband 
to-day." 

"  'Usband,  'm  ?  Beggin'  your  pardon  for  the  same, 
but  I  allays  looked  up  to  you  as  a  widder,  for 
which  I'm  sure  I'm  very  sorry,  being  young  as 
you  are  and  in  the  prime  of  life  and  strength, 
and  with  lots  of  future  and  all." 

Betty  Biundell  took  a  rosebud  out  of  a  vase  and 
deftly  opened  its  petals.  "  I've  only  been  married 
three  years  and  a  half,  Mrs,  Weeks,"  she  said. 

"  Indeed,  'm  !  " 

In  Mrs.  Weeks's  voice  there  was  something  of  the 
interested  sympathy  which  may  always  be  noticed  in 
the  voices  of  women,  whether  they  themselves  are 
happily  married  or  not,  at  the  mention  of  the  word 
husband.  And  she  smiled  warmly,  and  smirked  a 
little,  and  sunk  her  voice  a  tone,  romance  oozing  out 
of  her  every  pore. 

Mrs.  Biundell  smiled  back  prettily,  describing  the 
woman  in  her  brain  as  a  hopeless  fool. 


296  Beam's  Clay 

"You  must  give  us  a  very  nice  dinner,  dear  Mrs. 
Weeks,     You  must  surpass  yourself." 

Mrs.  Weeks  blushed  witli  pleasure. 

"Yes'm,"  she  said.  "'As  'e  bin  av/ay  fer  long, 
'm?" 

"  For  three  years.' 

"Moy,  that's  a  fair  slice." 

"Yes  ;  it  is  a  long  time." 

"  Tore  away  while  the  'one^ymoon  was  still  young, 
as  one  may  say."  Mrs.  Weeks  picked  up  the  end  of 
her  apron,  and  ran  her  fingers  slowly  along  the 
edges.     "  Mabbe  ye'll  be  leavin'  me  now,  'm?" 

"Oh,  dear,  no,  Mrs.  Weeks,"  said  Mrs.  Blundell, 
with  the  emphatic  insincerity  of  the  woman  whose 
one  desire  is  to  be  liked  by  everybody.  "  I  adore 
this  little  place  and  its  surroundings.  We  shall  only 
leave  you  if  my  husband's  business  takes  him  to 
London." 

(London !  London !  The  word  echoed  in  her 
heart !) 

"■  Thank  you,  'm,"  said  Mrs.  Weeks. 

A  step  crunched  below.  Like  a  swallow,  Mrs. 
Blundell  again  darted  to  the  window  and  looked 
out  eagerly. 

A  throb  of  sympathy  seized  Mrs.  Weeks,  when  she 


Beam's  Cla^  297 

saw  the  look  of  disappointment  on  Betty  Elundell's 
face. 

"Ah,"  she  thought,  packing  the  plates,  "it  must  be 
foine  to  be  loved  loikc  tl^at. 

"Why  the  dickens  doesn't  he  wire?"  cried  Mrs. 
I'lundell  inwardly.     "The  fool!" 

"Might  I  njake  so  bold  as  to  arst  if  your  gcmtle- 
man  is  a  horfcer,  'm,  not  for  the  sake  o'  pry  in',  I  do 
assure  you,  'm,  to  spread  it  around  to  them  in  this 
village  who  is  allays  on  tiptoes  for  a  bit  o'  noos,  not 
bein'  one  o'  them  as  is  out  of  the  way  curious  by 
nature,  although  I  won't  say  as  'ow  my  'eart  is  flinty, 
and  takes  no  hinterest  in  fcllcr-sinners — not,  if  you'll 
believe  me,  'm,  as  'ow  I  classes  you  and  such  as  a 
sinner  except  in  the  Bible  sense,  which,  as  everyone 
knows,  properly  used  and  directed,  only  applies 
when  it's  unpleasant  to  the  poor  and  needy,  rightly 
regardin'  gentlefolks  with  indulgence." 

"  No,  Mrs.  Weeks,"  said  Betty,  seizing  her 
opportunity.     "My  husband  is  in  the  Navy." 

"Ah'm,"  said  Mrs.  Weeks,  who  had  regained  her 
breath,  "  'e  must  be  a  darin'  gentleman  for  to  spend 
his  life  cooped  up  as  one  may  say  in  four  Vv'alls  all 
gettin  narrow  at  the  b.)Ltom  and  flat  on  top,  which 
'as,    I    am    told,  an    up   and    down    movement  that 


298  HDam's  Clas 

affects  the  strongest  when  they  least  expect  it, 
with  nothing  but  a  waste  of  water  around,  not 
that  I've  ever  'ad  the  good  fortune  to  see  it  myself, 
but  knows  them  as  'as,  filled  with  strange  animals 
and  fishes  such  as  I've  seen  on  Mr.  Creek's  Christ- 
mas Calendar,  'im  as  is  the  baker  'ere,  'm,  and  a 
nice,  simple  feller  when  sober  and  in  'is  right  mind 
but  inclined  to  be  adventurous  when  filled,  'avin' 
smashed  up  'is  'ome  three  times,  brcakin',  if  you'll 
believe  me,  every  blessed  stick  'e  could  lay  'ands 
on,  laughin'  'ighly  amused  the  'old  of  the  time, 
same  as  a  man  might  at  a  play;  and  why  I  speak 
of  'im  before  you,  which  I'm  sorry  for,  and  apologises, 
is  because  'e  were  a  sailor  in  a  manner  o'  speakin', 
that  is,  'e  wore  sailor's  things  at  the  Hearl's  Court 
H'Exibition  up  in  Lunnon  before  'e  returned  to 
'is  father  an'  said,  '  Father,  I  'ave  sinned  against 
Heaven  and  you,  but  I  would  as  lief  'ave  a  nice 
roast  chicken,  not  'avin'  a  mind  for  fatted  calf,'  and 
gettin'  it  too.  .  .  ." 

"Yes,"  said  Betty  Blundell,  marvelling  at  the 
woman's  astonishing  glibness.  "  A  sailor  has  a  lot 
to  put  up  with.  But  he  has  his  compensations  when 
he  gets  to  port." 

"  Ah,"  said    Mrs.  Weeks,   "  a  nice  beverage  it  is 


HDam'5  Cla^  299 

too,  'm,  and  goes  grandly  to  the  'ead.  I  'ad  some 
of  it  when  I  was  young  at  a  Baptist  houtin',  and 
I  can  assure  you,  'm,  that  if  it  'ad n't  been  for  the 
presence  of  the  minister  as  'ow  there  were  nothink 
I  wouldn't  'ave  done,  and  thankful  I  were  for  the 
same,  though  'is  voice  were  momentous  and  'e  did 
'ave  to  leave  the  village  under  a  shadder,  'avin' 
tampered  with  a  young  girl  and  the  club  money, 
bein'  seen  and  heard  of  again  on  a  race  -  course, 
standin'  on  a  tub  in  a  white  'at.  And  so  your  'usband 
is  a-comin'  back,  and  I  do  rejoice  and  I  'ope  as  'ow 
}'ou  will  stay  as  long  as  it  suits  you,  bein'  very  useful 
to  me,  the  extra  shillin's,  I  can  assure  you,  'm,  with 
a  large  family  and  all." 

Mrs.  Blundell  rose  and  stood  looking  thoughtfully 
at  her  writing-case. 

As  Mrs.  Weeks  left  the  room  Mrs.  Blundell  seized 
the  time-table,  and  for  the  tenth  time  looked  up 
the  trains  from  London.  (London!  London!)  One 
arrived  at  3.45.  It  was  the  first,  unless  he 
changed  and  waited  three-quarters  of  an  hour  at 
a  junction  half-way,  in  which  case  he  would  be  .  .  . 

She  looked  at  her  travelling  clock.  "  No,  he's 
missed  it." 

The  second  one  came  in  at  half-past  seven.    "Good 


300  Edam's  Clas 

heavens!"  she  cried,  "what  a  frightful  time  to  kill. 
I  do  think  Milly  might  have  played  the  game.  She 
got  my  letter  this  morning.      What  cats  women  are." 

A  hundred  times  during  the  remainder  of  the 
day,  Mrs,  Blundell  sprang  up  from  the  hard,  anti- 
macassared  sofa,  and  went  to  the  window.  A 
hundred  times  she  cried  out :  "  Why  doesn't  he  wire, 
why  doesn't  he  come  ?  Curse  this  place,  curse  it." 
A  hundred  times  she  took  up  a  book,  and  allowing 
her  thoughts  to  wander,  conjured  up  the  noises,  the 
bustle,  the  undercurrent  of  London.  (London  ! 
London  !) 

Mrs.  Cator's  telegram  was  handed  to  her  in  the 
afternoon.  Betty  Blundell  rejoiced.  But  a  restless- 
less  still  pervaded  her.  At  seven  o'clock,  unable  to 
sit  still,  to  stand  still,  to  read,  to  think,  she  started 
off  to  walk  along  the  road  which  led  to  the  station. 

No  telegram  had  come  from  Evelyn.  The  post- 
man delivering  the  evening  post  had  gone.  There 
was  no  letter  from  Evelyn. 

Telling  herself  that  Evelyn  was  planning  f. 
surprise,  Mrs.  Blundell  remained  on  the  road  till 
half-past  eight,  till  nine,  till  half-past  nine. 

The  sun  went  down  in  fiery  silence.  The  harvest 
moon  rose  placidly.     Birds  chattered  of  their  day's 


Beam's  CIa>?  301 

dolnc^s,  and  one  by  one  fell  asleep.  The  faint  breeze, 
which  had  been  teasing  the  grasses,  grew  tired  too. 
Even  the  gnats  went  home.  Mrs.  Blandell  was 
alone. 

The  stillness  got  upon  her  nerves.  With  quick, 
angry  steps,  she  returned  to  the  cottage.  Evelyn 
had  missed  the  last  train.  The  dinner  had  been 
laid  some  time.  The  heat  of  the  lamp  had  made 
the  flowers  hang  limp. 

Mrs.  Weeks  had  spent  much  time  and  thought  in 
their  arrangement.  She  had  placed  others  on  the 
mantel-board,  in  vases  collected  from  her  own 
Sunday  sitting-room.  Her  daughter  had  placed  a 
big  bowl  filled  with  sun-flowers  on  the  dressing- 
table  in  the  bedroom.  With  clean  hands,  the  mother 
and  her  daughter  had  tidied  up  the  room,  packed 
the  collection  of  books  that  Mrs.  Blundell  had 
brought  with  her  in  a  little  pile  at  the  foot  of  the 
sofa,  and  tied  the  backs  of  the  chairs  up  with 
clean  antimacassars,  trimmed  with  a  staring  blue 
ribbon. 

The  little  table  upon  which  I^.Trs.  Blundell  did  her 
letter-writing  had  been  the  subject  of  their  earnest 
thought  also.  The  pens  were  arranged  in  parallel 
lines,  the  note-paper  placed  tidily  on   the    blotting- 


302  Beam's  Cla^ 

pad,  the  excellent  v/riting-case — Blundell's  birthday 
present — closed  and  fastened. 

Mrs,  Blundell  came  into  the  room  and  flung  her 
hat  on  to  the  sofa.  The  books  toppled  over  with  a 
clatter.  She  crossed  to  the  writing-table,  dashed  the 
pens  here  and  there,  disarranged  the  note-paper,  and 
flung  open  the  writing-case.  Then  snatching  the 
flowers  out  of  their  vases,  she  pitched  them  out  of 
the  window.     They  lay  trembling  upon  the  road. 

Mrs.  Weeks  tapped  at  the  door. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  cried  Mrs.  Blundell. 

"  If  you  please,  'm,  dinner  has  bin  cooked  this 
hour.     I'm  afraid  the  chickenses  is  all  frizzled   up." 

"  I  don't  want  any  dinner,"  said  Mrs.  Blundell. 
"Go  away." 

Leaving  the  perspiring  woman  standing  in  the 
middle  of  the  room  wilh  her  mouth  open,  Mrs. 
Blundell  went  into  the  bedroom  and  slammed  the 
door. 


CHAPTER  XV 

Early  in  the  morning,  furiously  angry,  Mrs. 
Blundell  sent  a  telegram  to  her  husband  and  pre- 
paid the  reply.  What  right  had  he  to  stay  at  the 
Mdtropole  while  she  had  to  put  up  with  two  tiny, 
impossible  rooms  in  an  out-of-the-way  hole  in  the 
country  ?  It  was  unjust.  It  was  ridiculous.  She 
was  only  there,  she  argued,  with  dabs  of  angry 
colour  on  her  cheeks,  at  his  especial  request.  All 
this  time  she  might  have  been  in  London,  or  near 
London,  at  any  rate  in  civilisation,  having  a  good 
time. 

At  midday  a  telegram  and  a  note  were  brought 
up  to  her.  The  telegram  was  from  Evelyn  Blundell, 
the  note  from  John  Ashley. 

"  Coming  some  time  to-day,"  ran  the  first. 

The  second  contained  these  eleven  words  : 

"  i\Ieet  me  on  the  hill  this  evening  for  the  last 
time." 

Anger  left  Mrs.  Blundell.     Determination  took  its 
305 


304  Bbam'5  Cla^ 

place — a  determination  to  get  Blundell  to  take  her 
away  to  London,  to  Brighton,  to  Dieppe,  anywhere 
away  from  the  country,  where  there  were  people, 
things  to  dress  for,  things  to  see  ;  a  determination 
to  make  him  pay  for  not  having  hurried  to  her  side. 

And  she  could  make  him  pay,  she  said  to  herself, 
with  a  triumphant  smile,  in  which  there  was  not  a 
little  cruelty.  She  knew  her  husband  well.  She 
knew  exactly  the  temper  of  him,  the  nature  of  him. 
Ah,  yes,  he  should  be  made  to  pay. 

She  laughed  as  she  thought  about  it,  and  as  she 
laughed  a  song  came  back  to  her  lips,  and  her  eyes 
sparkled,  and  she  moved  about  the  room  like  a  fairy, 
as  slight,  as  exquisitely  finished,  as  fresh  and  girlish 
as  a  Romney  "  Lady  Hamilton." 

She  laughed  a  rippling  laugh  of  amusement  as  she 
re-read  John  Ashley's  little  note.  Yes,  distinctly 
it  would  be  good  fun  to  see  him  again.  After  all,  he 
was  an  unkissed  man.  He  still  existed  as  a  subject 
for  experiments,  and  it  would  be  interesting  to  see 
what  manner  of  mo,:d  he  was  in. 

But  she  had  plently  to  do  before  the  evening 
Whether  she  ultimately  decided  on  Brighton, 
Dieppe,  Dinard,  or  London,  dress  was  a  difficulty. 
She  would,  she  decided,  run  through  her  wardrobe, 


H&am*s  Cla^  305 

and  see  how  she  stood — decide  which  dresses  would 
pass  muster  as  they  were,  which  could  be  made  to 
pass  muster  with  a  little  manipulation,  and  which 
would  have  to  be  replaced. 

She  gave  little  thought  to  her  outstanding  bills  at 
the  dressmaker's.  After  all,  Blundell  couldn't  expect 
to  get  everything  for  nothing.  And  so,  in  the  best 
of  spirits,  she  spent  a  large  portion  of  the  morning 
and  afternoon  trying  on  frocks,  peering  critically  at 
them,  patting  them  here  and  there,  and  making 
notes  on  a  sheet  of  writing-paper. 

And  she  sang  the  v^hile,  as  a  bird  sings,  and  flung 
her  arms  up  gaily  at  the  thought  of  leaving  the 
country  she  so  heartily  disliked.  Like  a  child,  she 
even  stood  and  looked  out  at  the  magnificent 
panorama,  spread  in  front  of  the  window,  and  made 
a  vioue  at  it. 

Yes,  after  all,  she  had  put  in  a  fairly  good  time, 
she  thought.  John  Ashley  was  very  new.  He  had 
given  her  some  excellent  fun.  He  had  proved  to  her, 
almost  too  convincingly,  the  fact  that  she  had  lost 
none  of  her  power. 

The  evening  cnme,  as  evenings  have  a  knack  of 
doing.  She  h^ad  been  longer  over  her  dress  parade 
than    she    had    intendt;d    to   be.      Evelyn    would    be 


3o6  Edam's  Clai5 

in  the  cottage  before  she  could  return  from  the  hill. 
It  pleased  her  to  thinlc  that  he  would  be  upset  at 
not  finding  her  waiting  to  give  him  welcome.  She 
dawdled  a  little  in  giving  directions  to  Mrs.  Weeks 
as  to  dinner,  and,  for  the  same  purpose,  made  her 
way  quite  slowly  through  the  fields. 

She  had  no  eyes  for  the  delicate  beauty  of  the 
evening,  for  the  rich  colouring  of  the  corn,  for  the 
splashes  in  the  hedges,  for  the  Vvdiispcrs  of  the 
shaking  grass,  for  the  loud  cantata  of  the  birds. 

'•' Dinard,  Dieppe,  or  London?"  she  asked  herself 
over  and  over  again.  "  Or  I>ondon  ?  It's  a  bad 
time  of  year  for  London,  but  there  are  the  theatres, 
and  there's  the  Exhibition — that  huge  patch  of 
gravel  and  painted  canvas,  popular  chocolates  and 
popular  bands.    But  iJiere,'&\Qxc  are  people — peoplel" 

She  looked  at  her  watch,  resting  one  pretty  foot 
on  the  lower  step  of  a  stile.  By  taking  the  cart  in 
which  she  had  driven,  Evelyn  would  be  already  in 
the  cottage.  She  laughed  as  she  imagined  his 
disappointed  face,  and  wondered  how  long  it  would 
be  before  he  commenced  to  blaspheme. 

Against  the  sky,  erect  and  very  still,  stood  Ashley, 
arms  folded,  chin  low,  watching  her  gravely  as  she 
went  up.  The  expression  in  his  ej'es  was  curiously 
cynical,  curiously  bitter. 


With  a  kind  of  shock  Mrs.  r;lL]ndcll  noticed  that 
the  young  look  she  had  so  admired  in  him  had 
gone.  There  were  Hnes  about  his  eyes  and  mouth  ; 
a  pecuHar  slope  about  his  shoulders. 

He  made  no  movement  as  she  came  nearer. 
Bare-headed,  there  he  stood,  with  a  never-changing 
expression,  like  a  man  turned  into  a  statue. 

For  the  first  time  in  her  life  Mrs.  Blundell  felt 
insignificant,  comiii.onplace.  She  felt  small  and 
ignoble  by  the  side  of  this  cold,  impassive  man,  and 
all  kinds  of  ridiculously  feeble  remarks  fluttered 
through  her  mind. 

"  Good  evening,"  she  said  finally,  with  a  meaning- 
less laugh,  for  which  she  hated  herself.  "  What  a 
beautiful  evening." 

John  Ashley  merely  continued  to  look  at  her 
silently, 

"  We  have  certainly  been  very  lucky  in  the 
weather,"  she  added,  after  a  most  uneasy  pause, 
"  Your  corn  is  very  good,  isn't  it?" 

Again  she  paused.  Still  Ashley  remained  silent, 
with  his  eyes  going  over  her  slowly. 

She  felt  that  he  could  see  into  her  heart,  and 
Vv'as  av;are  of  the  cmpl.iness  of  it — that  he  could 
see    how   poorly    her    nature    compared    with    her 


3o8  H&am'5  Clag 

appearance.  She  could  feel  the  blood  flooding  her 
face.     She  bent  down  and  plucked  some  grass. 

"You  said  you  wanted  to  see  me,"  she  said.  "1 
thought  that  you  had  always  known  that  I  was 
married.  I've  always  worn  my  ring."  She  caught 
his  eyes.  She  knew  that  he  was  aware  that  she 
was  lying.  "My  husband  will  be  waiting  for  me. 
I  think  I'd  better  be  .  .  ." 

"Stop!"  he  said  quietly.  "I  have  nothing  to 
say,  no  reproaches  to  make.  You  have  merely 
proved  to  me  that  my  father  knew  what  he  was 
talking  about.  Before  you  go  out  of  my  life,  will 
you  kiss  me  once  more?" 

Immediately  Mrs,  Blundell  became  herself,  and 
Ashley  dwindled  before  her  eyes. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  she  said ;  "  but  you  must  really  be 
quick  about  it." 

He  opened  his  arms  and  put  them  round  her. 
He  drew  her  slowly  towards  him,  looking  down 
into  her  eyes.  Slowly  he  bent  his  head.  There 
was  a  gleam  in  his  eyes ;  and  as  she  looked  at 
them  her  dream  came  back  to  her,  and  she  felt 
his  hands  close  round  her  throat.  She  tried  to  call 
out.     She  struggled  wildly.     He  was  killing  her. 

A  coarse  laugh  rang  through  the  quiet,  scented 
air,  and  she  found  herself  falling  to  the  ground. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

When  Betty  Blundell  came  to  herself,  as  she  did 
quickly,  the  first  thing  she  noticed  was  that  her 
stockings  looked  quite  charming  against  the  green 
of  the  grass ;  the  second  that  her  husband  and 
young  John  were  standing  straight  up  looking  at 
one  another  quietly. 

She  sat  up,  and  rubbed  her  elbow  and  straightened 
her  frock  and  waited,  with  a  sense  of  delight,  for 
an  outburst  of  blasphemy  from  her  husband. 

Her  delight  turned  into  anxiety.  The  silence, 
so  totally  unexpected,  so  absolutely  out  of  place, 
became  oppressive.  She  examined  her  husband's 
face  curiously,  and  then  shot  a  quick  glance  at 
Ashley's  face. 

There  was  none  of  the  mutual  hatred  that  she 
expected  and  hoped  to  sec  upon  either  face — only 
an  expression  of  sym])athy. 

In    the    distance    a    sheep-bell    tinkled,    and    the 

shrill   voice    of  a   boy  frightening  the  crows   away 

309 


3IO  HDam's  Cla^ 

drifted  up.  Among  the  branches  of  a  neighbouring 
tree  a  linnet  sang,  and  a  bee,  self-absorbed,  one- 
purposed,  hunted  musically  for  a  useful  blossom. 

At  last  Blundell  spoke. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  are  you  goin'  to  kill  that  dirty 
little  woman,  or  isn't  it  worth  your  while  ?  " 

Ashley  shook  his  liead  without  a  word.  Then  he 
stooped  and  picl^ed  up  his  hat,  and  Blundell  watched 
the  man  who  thought  that  he  knew  more  than  his 
father  had  known  swing  down  the  hill. 

A  sudden  feeling  of  fright  seized  Betty  Blundell, 
She  scrambled  to  her  knees,  clasped  her  hands 
together,  and  cried  out  : 

"  Evelyn,  Evelyn  !  "  Again  the  coarse  laugh  rang 
out.  "  Evelyn,  before  God  I  have  been  faithful  to 
you — before  God,  Evel}'n  !  " 

Blundell  was  not  looking  at  her.  He  was  watching 
Ashley. 

The  beautiful  Betty  Blundell  crept  through  the 
grass  and  caught  up  her  husband's  hand. 

With  a  shudder  and  a  gesture  of  disgust  Ijlundoll 
shook  her  off.      "  Faithful  !  "  he  said.     "  Eaithi'ul  ?  " 

"Yes,  yes." 

lie  U.ii]<  out  the  bundle  of  letters  and  flung  tlicm 
in  her  face. 


Beam's  Clnv  3" 

The  veins  stood  out  suddenly  upon  his  forehead, 
and  his  face  grew  red. 

"Get  up,"  he  said;  "your  stockings  won't  affect 
me.  And  when  you've  got  nothing  better  to  do, 
run  through  those  letters.  They'll  amuse  you.  .  .  . 
I  shall  allow  you  a  third  of  my  pay  through  my 
solicitors.  You  know  how  precious  much  that  is. 
But  fou  won't  starve,  worse  luck  !  It  would  be  a 
d — n  fine  thing  if  you  could  !  Your  sort  don't 
starve ;  but  in  order  to  live  as  you  want  to  do, 
you'll  be  obliged  to  follow  the  oldest  profession  in 
the  world  like  an  honest  woman,  and  no  longer 
spend  your  life  indulging  in  your  amusin'  hobby, 
You'll  find  at  legist  one  good  v.  oman  among  your 
new  companions — very  m.uch  too  good  for  you.  .  ,  . 
Here's  your  first  week's  pay." 

With  a  sneer  on  his  face,  IMundell  dropped  two 
sovereigns  upon  the  grass  at  Betty's  feet. 

"  Evelyn  .  .  .  Evelyn  ..."  she  cried,  "  as  God's 
my  judge  .  .  ." 

With  a  hoarse,  inarticulate  cry  Blundcll  sprang  at 
his  wife  and  seized  her  by  the  shoulders.  All  his 
rage  and  grief  and  wcundod  vanity  and  self-pity 
were  stirred,  and  tlvey  surged  through  his  veins 
into   his   brain.      ?Jurd^r   was   in   his   blood — a   red- 


3i2  a^am'9  Cla^ 

hot,  fiendish,  irresistible  desire  to  liurt,  to  smash, 
to  wound,  to  stamp  upon  the  beautiful  thing  who 
had  tricked  and  fooled  him,  whose  life  was  a  lie, 
whose  touch  was  contamination,  whose  mind  was 
warped  and  horrid  and  low.  The  good  little  bad 
woman  had  used  the  same  expression  in  defending 
a  lie.  On  her  lips  it  had  not  sounded  blasphemous. 
On  the  lips  of  this  woman,  this  kind  of  woman  .  .  . 

Blundell  shook  her  as  a  dog  shakes  a  rat.  His  lip 
was  curled  up  from  his  teeth,  and  his  breath  came  in 
gasps. 

He  suddenly  flung  her  away  with  an  exclamation 
of  horror,  and  stood  shaking  for  a  moment,  as  he 
realised  what  he  had  intended  to  do.  Then  he,  too, 
turned  on  his  heel  and  swung  down  the  hill. 

Having  sucked  a  clover-head  dry,  the  bee  moved 
off,  and  its  humming  hung  for  a  moment  on  the  air, 
The  boy  raised  his  voice  again  in  a  long  whoop,  but 
at  a  greater  distance  than  before.  The  linnet's  song 
ceased,  and  the  bird  dipped  away.  Below,  the  old 
clock  sang  the  death  and  the  birth  of  an  hour.  .  .  , 

"  Evelyn  .  .  .  Evelyn  .  .  ," 


CHAPTER  XVII 

Young  Ashley  opened  the  gate  of  the  little  church- 
yard gently  and  closed  it  behind  him.  His  hands 
were  still  shaking  and  his  heart  still  beating  quickly. 

He  halted  on  the  narrow  gravel  path,  bordered 
with  irregular  lines  of  box,  and  took  off  his  hat. 
He  would  not  stand  by  his  father's  grave  until  he 
had  mastered  himself  There  was  not  much  to 
tell  him,  but  he  would  say  what  he  had  to  say 
coolly. 

In  the  fading  light  he  stood  erect,  with  limp  arms 
and  set  face,  amon.;  the  graves  of  the  villagers, 
young  and  old.  Young  and  old,  many  of  them 
had  worked  on  the  farm.  Young  and  o!d,  ma;^,y 
of  them  had  been  known  to  him  by  sight.  Angry 
blood  no  longer  rushjd  through  their  veins.  Pain 
and  happiness  afflicted  them  no  longer.  They 
had  escaped. 

In   the   fading   light   beneath   the   p^hilosopliic  but 

sympatlictic  arms  of  tiie  ancient  }  e\v  ttees,  tlie  stones, 

^.1 ; 


314  Beam's  Gla^ 

some  flat,  some  erect,  some  at  queer  angles,  some 
very  old,  some  glaringly  new,  gleamed  coldly. 
The  silence  was  broken  by  the  thoughtless  and 
merry  screams  of  the  swallows,  who  made  a  play- 
ground of  tlie  churchyard.  The  motionlessncss 
of  the  place  was  disturbed  by  a  robin  with  dim 
breast,  which  jumped  stiffly  from  grave  to  grave, 
now  perching,  with  bobbing  tail,  on  the  trumpet  of 
a  stone  angel,  now  on  a  wreath  of  withered  blooms 
that  lay  upon  a  neglected  mound  of  grass.  The 
scent  of  flowers  hung  upon  the  air. 

Then,  at  last,  young  Ashley  made  his  way  to 
the  grave  of  his  father. 

He  took  a  revolver  out  of  his  pocket  and  placed 
it  by  his  side.  It  was  the  one  which  had  enabled 
the  elder  Ashley  to  take  a  short  cut  to  death. 

He  looked  down  upon  the  letters  carved  primly 
upon  the  stone  and  read  them  over  mechanically 
— "John  Everard  Campbell  Ashley.  John  Everard 
Campbell  Ashley,  born,  died.  For  he  loved,  for 
he  loved." 

Sv.-amping  his  great  loneliness,  forciiig  aside  his 
grief,  came  a  ru.sh  of  intense  bitterness.  His  face 
took  on  a  sneer  as  he  reviewed  in  his  mhicl  the 
small   procession    of    days    in    wliich   so    much   had 


Beam's  Cla\?  315 

occurred.  He  saw  himself  wakin'^  up  and  going 
to  bed  with  the  sun,  a  sorrowful  but  not  discontented 
man.  He  saw  himself  going  through  his  day's 
work  with  quiet  ercrgy  and  determination,  painfully 
conscious  of  his  father's  absence,  but  fully  aware 
and  appreciative  of  the  ripening  beauty  of  the 
earth.  He  saw  himself  flung  into  a  state  of  chaos 
at  the  sudden  apparition  of  the  woman  who  had 
seemingly  fallen  from  the  sky.  He  lived  over  again 
the  thrill,  the  bev/;ldcrment,  the  wonder,  the  desire, 
tie  heard  himself  appealing  to  his  father  to  be 
let  off  his  promise  never  to  have  anything  to  do 
with  a  woman  of  the  world.  With  contempt  he 
went  through  his  blind  in^ituation,  his  implicit 
belief,  his  absolute  and  willing  capitulation.  He 
watched  himself  as  he  danced  through  the  hours 
with  his  bioixJ  on  f;re.  He  lived  over  again  the 
exquisite  moments  wlicn  he  lay  in  utter  and 
blissful  subjection  at  the  feet  of  the  beautiful  little 
creature  whose  voice  was  music,  and  whose  eyes 
v/ere  ma'-iicts  and  whose  breath  was  intoxicating. 
Stone  by  stone  he  rebuilt  the  shattered  castle  in 
which  he  and  she  v;ere  to  have  solved  the  mystery 
and  discoverc'l  the  secret  of  life,  and  v.ith  a  sl.aking 
heart  he  passed  through  again  that  wonderful  hour 


3i6  a^am's  Clag 

in  which  he  had  climbed  up  to  the  window  and 
held  the  warm,  sweet  body  close  against  his  heart 
He  revived  the  feeling  of  ecstasy  which  possessed 
him  as  he  stumbled  blindly  home,  certain  that  all 
was  right  with  the  world,  and  that  it  was  only  a 
matter  of  days  before  he  should  possess  her,  body 
and  soul ;  the  sense  of  calm  assurance  and  thank- 
fulness which  were  his  as  he  waited  for  her  on 
the  hill ;  the  frightful  shock  caused  by  her  callous 
announcement  of  the  arrival  of  her  husband.  His 
breathing  became  short,  and  the  perspiration  broke 
out  on  his  forehead  as  he  again  felt  his  fingers 
tightening  round  the  slim  throat  and  the  mad 
desire  to  prevent  her,  by  death,  from  ever  being 
held  in  another  man's  arms. 

It  has  been  shown  that  young  Ashley  was  no 
different  from  ninety-nine  men  out  of  a  hundred, 
and  that  he  was  his  father's  son.  Like  his  father 
and  the  rest  of  us,  he  was  stifled  Vv'ith  the  belief 
that  he  was  the  only  man  since  the  beginning  of 
all  things  to  suffer.  Like  his  father  and  the  rest 
of  us,  h.e  regarded  himself  as  the  only  man  living 
except  his  father  to  be  tricked  as  he  had  been 
tricked,  and  no  persuasion,  however  eloquent  and 
logical,  could   have  got   him   out   of  the   belief  that 


Beam's  Cla^  3^7 

every  woman  was  as  bad  and  as  cunning  and  as 
devilish  and  as  utterly  worthless  as  the  woman 
who  had  chosen    him  with  whom  to  pass  the  time. 

"  Father,"  he  said,  bending  over  the  grave,  "  you 
were  right,  after  all.  I  am  sorry  I  asked  you  to  let 
me  off  my  promise.  Her  beauty  took  my  breath 
away.  I  never  had  seen  an}'thing  so  wonderful 
before.  ...  I  needn't  tell  you  what  she  did.  You 
can  guess  ...  all  the  same,  it  has  done  for  me.  I 
shall  end  it  w^ith  your  pistol.  Will  you  keep  a 
look-out  for  me?" 

He  leaned  low  over  the  grave  and  kissed  the 
stone.  His  hand  closed  over  the  revolver.  As  he 
cocked  it  a  thrush  in  a  tree  almost  within  arm's 
length  of  him  suddenly  broke  into  a  throbbing  song. 

Young  Ashley  started  guiltily  and  listened.  In 
the  song  he  caught  a  note  of  optimism  and  a  love 
of  life  that  put  him  to  shame.  He  looked  round. 
The  night  had  opened  her  eyes  while  he  had  knelt 
there.  Over  his  head  an  evening  star  gared  down 
upon  him  steadily. 

"  Coward,"  croaked  a  frog  at  his  side. 

"  Coward,"  whispered  the  wind. 

"Live,  live,  and  thank  God  for  His  great  gift,"  sang 
the  bird.      "  Put  back  that  revolver.     You   are  7iot 


3i8  B&am'5  Cla^ 

the  only  living  thing  to  know  suffering.  You  arc  not 
the  only  one  to  meet  with  falseness  and  trickery. 
Go  liomc  and  live  it  down.  Go  home,  young 
Ashley,  and  carry  out  your  work.  There  are  other 
women  in  the  world,  good,  sweet  women,  whose 
lives  are  like  the  aroma  of  flowers,  whose  influence 
in  the  world  is  blown  upon  the  wind.  Don't  whine 
and  grizzle  like  a  school-;Jri  because  the  only 
woman  you  happen  to  have  met  is  not  one  of  these. 
Get  up  and  play  the  man.  Even  if  you  don't  have 
the  good  fortune  to  find  one  of  these,  the  earth  is 
very  beautiful,  and  you  are  needed  by  the  earth. 
Your  father's  case  was  a  different  one.  He  didn't 
take  his  life  until  he  knew  that  the  v/oman  he  had 
loved  and  had  lost  was  free.  He  had  lived  without 
her  for  twenty-five  bitter  years,  and  he  hurried, 
rightly  or  wrongly,  to  join  her.  You  have  no  such 
excuse.  The  creature  who  twisted  you  round  her 
finger  and  dropped  you  when  you  had  served  her 
purpose  belongs  to  no  sex.  You  are  badly  hit,  but 
the  wound  will  heal.  You  gave  her  your  heart. 
Don't  feed  the  maw  of  her  vanity  by  throwing  her 
your  life.  Go  home,  young  Ashley.  Who  knows 
how  much  you  may  not  be  needed  there  ?  Who 
knows,  who  knows  .  .  .  who  .  .  .  knows  ? " 


Beam's  Cla^  319 

The  sonf^  stopped  as  suddenly  as  it  had  begun. 
Anotlier  star  came  out  and  blinked  cheerfully  at 
him. 

Young  Ashley  slipped  the  revolver  into  his  pocket 
and  rose  to  his  feet.  He  was  cramped  and  wet  with 
dew,  but  his  pulse  was  normal  and  his  blood  cool. 

"  Father,"  he  said,  "  I  am  going  back  to  the  farm 
Whether  tlie  bird   said   those  things   to   me  or  not, 
they  are  true.     There  is  work  for  me  to  do,  and  life 
is  very  short.     I  still  refuse  to  believe  that  all  women 
are  alike.     I  will  see.  .  .  .  Good-night,  father." 

Young  Ashley  shut  the  gate  of  the  little  church- 
yard after  him  softly  and  turned  his  face  in  the 
direction  of  home.  Mope  led  him  by  the  hand 
through  the  copse,  not  despair. 


CHAPTER   XVIII 

There  were  two  ways  from  the  churchyard  to 
Ashley's  farm — the  long  way  over  the  Hog's  back 
and  the  short  way  through  the  village. 

With  a  superstitious  feeling  for  which  he  was 
unable  to  account,  young  Ashley  chose  the  shorter 
way.  "  Who  knows  how  much  you  may  not  be 
needed  at  home,"  he  repeated  to  himself  again  and 
again.  And  the  faster  he  walked,  the  louder  ranc^ 
this  sentence  in  his  ears. 

Since  the  death  of  his  father,  young  Ashley  had 
not  felt  that  he  was  needed  in  the  world.  He  gave 
work  to  a  handful  of  men,  and  so  enabled  them  to 
bring  up  their  families,  it  is  true.  Old  Sloke  and 
his  faithful  wife  depended  upon  him  for  a  livelihood, 
it  is  true.  The  poor  woman  and  her  little  super- 
fluous child  would  have  to  enter  the  workhouse  but 
for  his  charity,  it  is  true.  But  others  would  carry 
on  the  farm  if  he  were  to  give  it  up,  and  pay  the 
same  wages  to  his  men  and  to  the  Slokes.  and  he 

could  leave  in  the  parson's  care  enough  money  to 

320 


H&am's  dial?  321 

provide  for  the  woman  and  the  child  for  whom  his 
father  had  been  so  sorry.  And  so  the  bare  idea  of 
his  being  needed  at  home  again  gave  swiftness  to 
his  stride.  So  great  a  hold  did  the  words  of  the 
bird's  song  take  upon  him  that  he  broke  into  a  run 
as  he  cleared  the  copse  and  turned  into  the  road. 

If,  in  passing,  he  had  looked  into  the  post  office, 
he  would  have  seen  Mrs.  Blundell,  smiling  cynically, 
leaning  over  the  desk,  writing  out  a  telegram.  He 
would  not  have  seen  the  wording  of  the  message. 
Had  he  done  so  it  would  have  conveyed  very  little 
to  his  mind.  It  was  addressed  to  Valentine 
Worthing,  333  Piccadilly,  London :  "  Meet  me 
Paddington  to-morrow  2.45. — Betty  Blundell." 

But  young  Ashley's  eyes  were  looking  straight 
ahead.  Betty  Blundell  and  all  to  do  with  her  must 
belong  to  the  past.  She  had  played  the  chief  part 
in  a  bad  dream.  He  would  root  her  out  of  his 
memory,  he  determined. 

All  the  same,  his  pace  quickened  as  he  ran  under 
the  windows  of  Mrs.  Weeks's  cottage,  and  his  teeth 
came  together  with  a  snap. 

He  opened  the  white  gate  of  the  farm  and  pulled 
up.  There  were  lights  in  the  kitchen  and  the 
sitting-room.     But  the  place  was  as  quiet  as  usual. 


322  H^am'6  Cla» 

The  superstitious  feeling  was  stronger  upon  him 
than  ever.  He  examined  the  house  anxiously. 
For  some  moments  he  stood  irresolute,  frightened 
to  go  in.  Was  he  to  be  disappointed?  Had  he 
been  cheated  out  of  Death  by  a  will-o'-the-wisp  ? 
It  was  all  very  well  to  tell  him  that  the  earth 
needed  him.  There  were  plenty  to  look  after  the 
earth.  He  had  been  necessary  to  his  father.  In 
those  days,  there  was  something  to  live  for.  If 
only  he  could  find  some  human  being  who  needed 
him  now,  apart  from  wages,  how  good  a  thing  were 
life  ! 

He  found  old  Sloke  waiting  on  the  threshold.  He 
searched  the  man's  face  eagerly.  He  saw  anxiety 
suddenly  replaced  by  relief.     But  nothing  else. 

He  passed  quickly  into  the  sitting-room  and 
looked  round  wistfully.  The  lamp  stood  alight  upon 
the  table.  The  windows  were  open,  and  the  scented 
air  filled  the  room.  The  cat  rose  up  from  the  hearth 
and  rubbed  against  his  ankles.  The  sheep  -  dog 
charged  at  him,  barking  loudly.  The  lamp-light  fell 
softly  upon  the  photograph  of  old  Ashley.  But  the 
room  was  empty. 

With  a  feeling  of  poignant  disappointment  young 
Ashley  sat  down  in  his  chair. 


B&am's  Clai5  323 

"  Who  knows  how  much  you  may  not  be  needed 
at  home  ? "  What  did  that  mean,  if  it  meant 
anything?  Young  Ashley  did  not  know  whom  he 
expected  to  find,  but  he  had  expected  to  find 
someone.  There  was  no  one.  He  was  still  alone, 
He  was  to  remain  alone,  always. 

As  he  said  these  things  to  himself,  young  Ashley 
rose  quickly  and  stood  listening.  He  strode  to  the 
door  and  opened  it.  He  could  hear  the  rumble  of 
old  Sloke's  voice  in  the  kitchen  and  the  chink  of 
crockery.  Nothing  that  was  not  usual.  Then  he 
shut  the  door  and  turned  into  the  room.  With  a 
sudden  feeling  of  excitement  he  went  over  to  his 
father's  chair,  which  stood  in  the  shadow. 

With  difficulty  young  Ashley  restrained  a  cry. 

With  her  golden  head  resting  against  the  back  of 
the  chair,  her  long  lashes  lying  on  her  pale  cheeks, 
glistening  with  tears,  her  thin,  black  legs  hanging 
limp,  her  hands  crossed  upon  her  lap,  lay  the  little 
superfluous  girl,  fast  asleep. 

From  under  her  hands  half  an  envelope  peeped, 
with  a  black  border.  Young  Ashley  bent  over  the 
little  girl,  and  held  his  breath.  His  heart  beat 
quickly.  He  saw  his  name  upon  the  envelope. 
With    the    gentleness    of   a    woman    he    drew    the 


324  H&am's  Clas 

envelope  away  and  crept  to  the  lamp.  With  a  hand 
that  trembled  he  opened  the  envelope  and  read  the 
note. 

"  Honoured  Sir,— But  for  your  father  and  you, 
my  baby  and  me  would  have  starved  or  gone  to  the 
workhouse.  I  have  prayed  to  God  to  bless  you 
both  for  your  goodness  every  night  of  my  life.  I 
now  write  this  knowing  that  I  am  going.  It  will  be 
brought  to  you  by  my  child  when  I  am  dead.  She 
will  need  a  friend.     Dare  I  ask  .  .  ." 

Young  Ashley  dropped  the  letter  upon  the  table 
and  flung  his  arms  above  his  head.  "  Oh,  my  God," 
he  cried  in  his  heart,  "this  is  good  of  You.  In  a 
bird's  song  Your  message  came,  and  I  give  You 
thanks.  I  am  needed  in  the  world.  Here  is  a  little 
girl  who  shall  be  one  of  the  good,  sweet  women  of 
the  earth.  I  will  guard  her.  Nothing  of  harm  shall 
come  to  her,  ever." 

With  a  smile  upon  his  face,  young  Ashley  tiptoed 
into  the  kitchen. 

"  Mrs.  Sloke,"  he  said,  in  a  whisper,  "  the  little  girl. 
When  did  she  come  ? " 

"  Well,  theer  now  !  "  cried  Sloke.  "  Dagged  if  Oi 
didn't  forget  to  tell  'ee  about  .  .  ." 


Edam's  Cla^  32s 

**  Never  mind.  .  .  .  Her  mother's  dead." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Sloke.  "  Yesterday,  poor 
thing  !  " 

"  She  has  asked  me  in  a  letter  to  take  care  of  the 
child.  I  shall  do  so,"  said  young  Ashley,  holding 
his  head  high.  "  Get  my  father's  room  ready  for 
her." 

"  The  old  master's,  sir  ? "  There  was  surprise  as 
well  as  pleasure  in  the  woman's  voice. 

"  Yes  ;  and  lay  her  place  by  my  side  at  the  table." 
A  gush  of  tears  came  suddenly  into  young  Ashley's 
eyes.  "  Oh,  Mrs.  Sloke,"  he  said,  with  the  abandon- 
ment of  a  boy,  "  it  is  very  good  to  be  needed 
again." 

He  returned  to  the  sitting-room  and  stood  looking 
down  at  the  little  girl. 

She  gave  a  long  sigh  and  opened  her  eyes.  For 
a  moment  she  forgot  where  she  was.  Bewildered 
and  nervous,  her  hands  wandered  about  for  the 
letter.  Then  she  slipped  out  of  the  chair  and  gave 
a  curtsey. 

"Oh,  Master  John,"  she  said.  "If  you  please,  I 
came  with  a  letter  from — from  .  .  ." 

Her  mouth  trembled.  She  shut  her  eyes.  Her 
little  shoulders  shook  with  sobs. 


326  Beam's  Clws 

Young  Ashley  sat  down,  put  his  arm  round  the 
child,  and  drew  her  head  down  upon  his  chest, 
gently. 

"  Poor  little  girl,"  he  whispered,  **  poor  little  girl, 
poor  little  girl !  ...  It  is  like  that  with  me  too. 
Vou  have  lost  your  mother  and  I  my  father.  We 
were  both  alone.  But  you  will  have  me  now,  and 
I  shall  have  you,  and  I  will  try  and  make  up  a 
little,  if  I  can,  for  your  loss.  It  will  be  a  poor 
try,  because  no  one  can  ever  make  up  for  it.  But 
I  will  help  you  to  keep  your  mother's  grave  green, 
and  you  shall  help  me  with  my  father's.  Will  you, 
little  girl  ? " 

She  put  her  hands  against  his  shoulders  and 
leaned  back  and  looked  into  his  face. 

"Yes,  Master  John,"  she  said.  Then  she  flung 
her  arms  round  his  neck  and  pressed  her  fresh,  sweet 
lips  on  his  cheek. 

Young  Ashley  stood  up  and  went  over  to  the 
window  with  the  little  girl's  hand  in  his.  A  new 
moon  hung  shyly  in  the  sky. 

"  Who  knows,"  he  thought,  "  who  knows  ?  " 

THE   END 

Frinttd  by  Cftuan  &•  Co.,  Limiltd,  Perth. 


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